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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27983847">American Royalty</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedAndromeda/pseuds/FadedAndromeda'>FadedAndromeda</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dreamwastaken, GeorgeNotFound - Fandom, Sapnap - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, mcyt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:40:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>27,203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27983847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedAndromeda/pseuds/FadedAndromeda</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay was an ordinary senior in an ordinary Florida high school, when his entire life was flipped upside down in favor of a world he's never know. Now, with the responsibility of an entire nation on his back and a cute boy training him, he'll soon discover he's way in over his head.</p>
<p>Yes, this is slightly inspired by the Princess Diaries. No, I will not apologize for it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>dreamnotfound - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>219</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1 - Beginnings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay was sweating as he exited the broken-heatered public high school he begrudgingly attended. Students, released by the bell just as he had, swelled around him in a flood of bodies and conversation as he made his way to where his mom parked. The sun was high in the sky, signaling the start of the Florida summer he absolutely adored. Not. </p>
<p>	“Hey, sweetie! How was your day!” His mom was already calling out the rolled down car windows before he could even reach the vehicle. Several people looked over, causing Clay to duck his head in embarrassment. He was probably the only senior in high school to still get rides to and from school from his <i>mom.</i></p>
<p>	“Hey, mom.” Clay grumbled, dropping his backpack in the backseat, before slipping into the front and buckling his seatbelt. “It was okay, I guess. Air conditioning is still broken so it’s boiling.” He moaned, rolling his head back, the artificial cool of the car’s AC blowing through his shaggy dirty blond hair. He ran his hands through it, buckets of sweat getting stuck in his thick hair. </p>
<p>	The drive home was quiet, much quieter than Clay was used to. Usually his mom talked about all sorts of things; a new article she was writing, office gossip, what some actress on a TV show was wearing, etc. She was a journalist who spent most of her time working at home. Today she said nothing, just glanced at Clay and then back to the road. The last time he had gotten this treatment, he’d gone home only to discover his cat had died. </p>
<p>	“So, mom..” He trailed off, grasping at the words to make the confrontation a little more gentle. “What happened?” </p>
<p>	Okay, he wasn’t known for ‘gentle speech’. </p>
<p>	She swerved, causing him to grab on for dear life. His mother was, in all honesty, not the best driver. But she was the only driver in the house, and that was that. Getting back in her lane, and after several honks from pissed off drivers, she ran her hand through her hair.</p>
<p>	“N-nothing, honey.” He scoffed. </p>
<p>	“Nothing? You just about crashed us into that pickup and you’re being oddly quiet. Something happened.”</p>
<p>	She just sighed, shaking her head. Giving up, Clay leaned his head against the car window, annoyed and tired. His phone buzzed in his front pocket, no doubt a message from Nick. He didn’t move to look at it. </p>
<p>	“Just.. you’ll see when we get home, alright?” His mother finally spoke up after several minutes of tense silence. Clay just sighed, watching the <i>beautiful</i> urban Florida scenery from the highway. </p>
<p>	They pulled into the driveway of the two-bedroom bungalow they called home. Clay sat up, anxious at the sight of the black SUV sitting idly. He’d seen another one, in a very similar situation he was in now, when he was very young. The night when his dad hadn’t come back.</p>
<p>	His mom parked the car, and moved to open the door when Clay placed his hand on her arm. Anxiety rose in the pit of his stomach, metallic and heavy. As far as he was concerned, the vehicle meant nothing but trouble. The vehicle brought bad news, life ruining news. </p>
<p>	“Mom, w-who is that? Why are they here? At our house?” Clay’s voice and hands shook. His mother looked at him gently, age and tiredness showing through her eyes. Clay had never been easy to raise, and it had definitely taken a toll on her; just a single mother raising a hellion. Somewhere he felt bad, but moreover he felt scared. Was she sending him away?</p>
<p>	“Clay, I think it’s best if we go inside and talk about this. Take your backpack to your room and I’ll get our guests settled, okay?” She had expertly dodged his question. Hesitantly, he did as he was told. The windows of the SUV were tinted, causing his quick glance in to be unsuccessful. </p>
<p>	The usually comforting interior was replaced by a cold hellscape. Whoever was in the van was going to be in <i>here.</i> In here, on the musty brown couch they’d had since he was a baby. In here, with the portraits of him at various ages lining the walls. In here, with the one large, complete family photo, taken when he was only a baby. His dad smiled, at him, almost a clone of the teenager standing before it. His dad. </p>
<p>	Clay felt the very strong urge to jump out his bedroom window and run away where the people in the black SUV could never find him. </p>
<p>	That would be incredibly irresponsible of him, but whatever. </p>
<p>	Clay sat his backpack on the edge of his bed, sinking onto the edge and wrapping his arms around his torso. He listened as his mother brought.. whoever… into the house, a chorus of several unfamiliar voices setting his anxiety on edge again. A knock on his door startled his laminating, his mother poking her head through the door. </p>
<p>	“Our.. guests are ready whenever you are, sweetie.” </p>
<p>	He nodded at her, dismissing her without a word. His mother shut the door gently, assumingly going back to entertain the people invading his living room. There was only room for about six people to sit, so if there was more than that he’d have to stand awkwardly or sit on the floor, or be squished against someone, and- </p>
<p>	<i>Calm down.</i> He thought. <i>You’re in better control than this.</i></p>
<p>	With a shaky sigh and a long, drawn out stretch, Clay stood up, ready to take on whatever awaited him outside his doors. The familiar, faded yellow paint greeted him as he opened the door, the sound of conversation getting louder. He took a minute to breath, listening to the words being thrown around. </p>
<p>	“..coming with...”</p>
<p>	“..travel..”</p>
<p>	“Florida isn’t..”</p>
<p>	As scared as he was, Clay was curious. He couldn’t stand not knowing what the hell these people wanted. With more confidence than he actually felt, he strolled into the living room, head high. The conversation ceased immediately, and he found himself observing that there were only two new people in his living room-- the fear must have been tricking him. There was an empty space in an armchair, farther away from the invaders and closer to his mother. He swiftly took a seat, hoping to move the attention away from him.</p>
<p>	It did not.</p>
<p>	The three of them stared at Clay, occasionally glancing at each other and opening their mouths to say something, but falling short. The first of the new people was an older man, brown hair cropped close to his skull. He was stout and well built, like a world-champion weightlifter. He wore a suit (which strained against his massive shoulders), black, with a small red pocket square. Who the hell wears a pocket square?</p>
<p>	The second was much younger, much paler and scrawnier, with swoopy brown hair that fell over his forehead. He didn’t look much older than Clay, nor very threatening, but he sat rigid and cold, like Clay-- or his mother, for that matter-- couldn’t pick him up and throw him across the yard. His eyes were a beautiful shade of brown, catching in the Florida sunlight. He, too, worse a suit, this time with a blue pocket square. He stared straight ahead, like some invisible object had gathered all of his attention. </p>
<p>	“Clay..” his mother started, falling quiet. He shifted his attention to her, begging silently for her to continue, not wanting to sit in silence anymore.</p>
<p>	“Clay, this is Mr. Havingsfield and Mr. Davidson. They’re here to.. talk to you.” She indicated to who she was referring to, the elder being Mr. Havingsfield and the younger being Mr. Davidson. Davidson gave an almost undetectable sigh, only noticed because Clay had been staring right at him. </p>
<p>	“Clay, I’m going to make this a brief as I can. Do you remember your father?” Mr. Havingsfield asked me. I stopped in my tracks, the question catching me off guard. Of course, this would be about my father, right? The black SUV only meant my father. </p>
<p>	“Sure, I guess so. Barely.” </p>
<p>	“Your father was..” he paused, looking to Clay’s mother. She motioned him to continue. Clay was getting a little tired of all the secrecy. He was tired, and hungry, and wanted to take his daily nap. </p>
<p>	“He was what?”</p>
<p>	“Your father was a prince. The crown prince, to be exact. And now that he’s gone and you’re just about of age, you, too are the new crown prince.” </p>
<p>	Clay furrowed his eyebrows, trying not to laugh. This must have been some sick, elaborate prank that he and his poor mother had been unwilling participants in. But no one was laughing. No one bothered to look him in the eye as his face turned bright red, both in anger and in laughter. No one said anything as he looked around the room, searching for a hit of humor in anyone’s eyes. </p>
<p>	Slowly, Clay lifted himself from the chair, done with the conversation at hand. The idea of jumping out the window and never returning was sounding <i>really</i> good. Where would he go? South, to the everglades to live his dreams of being a swamp man? North, to Jacksonville, or Savannah? </p>
<p>	“Clay, wait-” his mother called. But it was too late, he was already slamming his bedroom door shut to wallow in self pity.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2 - Humble Starts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay has an angsty moment and packs to leave. That's pretty much it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A little while later, after he heard a long, low conversation, the door shut finally with a loud thump that rattled the windows. Clay listened as the SUV rolled away, relieved to finally have rid the house of unwanted visitors. He’d spent the last hour idly scrolling through socials, replying to friends and liking tweets. Anything and everything to try and not think about the conversation that just occurred, or the possibility that everything Mr. Havingsfield said was true, or the aching pain that was tightening in his chest. </p>
<p>His mother left him alone for another hour after that, doing God-knows-what. Occasionally he could hear her talking softly, sometimes mentioning his name. The joke went too far. But if it somehow wasn’t a joke.. did she know? About him, and about me? Why hide it? Could he trust anything she said? </p>
<p>A soft tap on his door jolted him out of his thoughts, nearly tossing his phone and half-typed message to Nick on the floor. He’d decided not to tell his best friend, just for the moment. </p>
<p>“Clay?” His mother called gently through the door. He grunted in response, turning back to finish his message and send it as his mother stepped lightly through the door.</p>
<p>“Are you doing okay?”</p>
<p>“Am I doing okay? I just got my entire life flipped upside down! You knew, didn’t you?” Clay accused angrily, sitting up. His mother just frowned, letting him take his anger out. He normally was a very relaxed person, but being lied to his whole life could break a man. </p>
<p>“Clay honey, we only did what we thought was best. Your father.. he wanted you to grow up as a normal kid. He would have told you- he wanted to tell you when you were old enough.” </p>
<p>Clay glared at her through thick tears that were forming and threatening to fall. All of the angry words he had wanted to say melted from his mind. Standing up, he took his mother in his arms, wrapping her in a hug, and shamelessly cried. Everything was too much for him. All of the repressed feelings about his dad were flooding into his body, a tidal wave of sadness and pain. </p>
<p>“W-why didn’t you t-tell me, mom?” His voice cracked as he tried to speak. </p>
<p>“He wanted it this way, Clay.” She sniffed lightly, rubbing his back. </p>
<p>“Wh-who cares what he wanted, he’s dead!” Clay cried, his tone more defeated than angry. “He’s been d-dead for over a decade, why follow his rules!” </p>
<p>“I know, Clay. I know.” </p>
<p>“And you didn’t think I’d want to know this?”</p>
<p>“You have to know it wasn’t only my decision. I would have told you if I could have.” </p>
<p>He didn’t have the heart to let her go for the next half hour. </p>
<p>When his mother had finally gotten him to separate, she quietly started to pack his bags as he numbly sat on the bed, nodding and shaking his head when asked his opinion. She was sending him away, just as he had thought. His training “couldn’t wait,” according to Mr. Havingsfield. Which meant packing his bags, being picked up later tonight, to take an eight hour plane ride from Miami to London. He’d be flying first class with the “nice boy” Mr. Davidson. Clay didn’t want to go. </p>
<p>Clay’s mother was throwing everything out of his bag for the third time. He didn’t see what the big deal was, of course he was going to own mostly tee-shirts and basketball shorts. This was Florida. </p>
<p>“Well, if there’s nothing to wear, I don’t have to go, right?” </p>
<p>She glared at him, making him laugh lightly. </p>
<p>“Of course not! We’ll have to make do. I’m sure they’ll put together a whole new wardrobe for you when you get there, if they haven’t already.” Clay rolled his eyes. Not only was the whole thing insane, but also apparently creepy. As far as he knew, no one besides the staff and family knew who he was, so why bother putting on a show?</p>
<p>“We’ll also need to get you a haircut.”</p>
<p>“No way.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Clay. You need to look presentable.” Clay groaned in annoyance. </p>
<p>“If my hair gets cut, I’m not going.” He, being dramatic, flopped back on his bed. </p>
<p>“Clay-”</p>
<p>“Nope. Touch a hair on my head and I’m not getting on that plane.” </p>
<p>In reality, he was finding any excuse he could get to not go. What if he doesn’t like the food? What if it’s too cold? What about Nick? How was he going to graduate high school? What if he can’t get along with anyone? His mother, of course, found answers for all of his questions. They’ll be chefs to make him what he wants. Wear a jacket. Nick will be okay without him. He’ll have tutors. Suck it up and try. </p>
<p>His mother sighed, giving up the fight. The sky outside was changing to the bright colors of sundown. She stopped, looking out the window.<br/>“It’s our last night here, Clay.”</p>
<p>“Don’t say that, they’ll probably kick me out of the UK before you can start to miss me.”  </p>
<p>She didn’t say anything, just looked at him with sad, tired eyes. The whole situation was insane, almost incomprehensible. All he had keeping him sane was humor, much to his mother’s dismay. He didn’t want to be a prince, not to mention he hadn’t even started wrapping his head around being a king. Clay, a brash, Florida high schooler, could not be king. </p>
<p>“I’m going to order us some food. Finish packing.. whatever you think you’ll need.” She left the room quietly, leaving Clay to sit quietly in his room, looking in dismay at the nearly empty suitcase and the pile of discarded clothes that sat around it. She’d put in the nicest clothes he owned— which was not much. He tossed his phone charger into the bag, watching it hit the empty black interior. He was, for all intents and purposes, being sent away to live a life he’d never known. And that was terrifying. </p>
<p>Clay finished his packing, only putting in some comfy clothes in his suitcase for when he was inevitably kicked out and everything else in his backpack to take on the plane with him. The sun had just about dipped below the horizon when he’d finished, spending a lot of time staring off into the distance, trying to process what in the hell he was doing. </p>
<p>Clay had just finished slurping up the final bit of his chow mien when a knock on the front door startled him from the bliss. He had hoped that Mr. Havingsfield had just forgotten him and had gone home. That it was just some scam that they couldn’t keep up, or something. Of course that couldn’t be the case, because the universe hated him. </p>
<p>His mother went to open the door, leaving him to glare at the counter and slurp noodles angrily. A chorus of pleasantries sounded from the door, further angering Clay. People who were turning his whole life upside down had no right to be so nice. He didn’t care how pretty they were, to him, they were still the enemy. </p>
<p>“Clay, come out here and say hi. And bring your bags too, won’t you?” He rolled his eyes, dragging his feet to prolong the inevitable. Maybe if he made them miss the flight he wouldn’t have to go. That was childish and unrealistic, sure. They’d just reschedule the flight anyway. </p>
<p>He dragged himself down the hall, grabbing the two bags and ignoring the three stood around the door as he placed them down. Mr. Davidson— it felt ridiculous to call a kid his age Mr.— stood politely, watching the exchange as well as eyeing Clay. Something about the boy unnerved him, but he’d rather be around someone close to his age than Mr. Havingsfeild, who looked old enough to be his dad. He also wanted to know who these people were that had been tasked to look after him. Why was their relationship to the royal family? Did they have a title? </p>
<p>“Because our previous introduction went so.. well.. I figured I should introduce myself. I am Sir Victor Havingsfield. Me and your father were.. friends.” Mr. Havingsfield shook his hand, and he let him, numbly. What kind of a person puts “Sir” in front of his name? Was that a title? Should he bow? </p>
<p>“And this is His Grace, the Duke of Manchester.” Mr. Havingsfield continued. Clay stared blankly at Mr. Davidson— no, the Duke of Manchester. He figured he should definitely bow, and did so.</p>
<p>“No, no. Please rise, Your Royal Highness. You only bow to those above you.” </p>
<p>Clay froze, halfway up from his shaky, definitely wrong bow. It was the first time in their entire visit he had heard the boy speak. His voice was smooth with indifference, yet the syllables were jagged and crude. He liked it immediately. Something imperfect that broke the mask of stillness and perfection. </p>
<p>Clay rose, blushing slightly at being called out but not overall affected. He had the feeling that mistakes were going to happen a lot. This might even be a little bit of fun.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Thank you all for reading the second chapter of American Royalty. The story will be picking up soon, so watch out for that. Questions and suggestions are always welcome!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3 - Plane Ride</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's plane time, baby! The pair continue to be bitchy towards each other, but that's not going to change any time soon.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay was stuffed into a plane almost an hour later, his 6’3” frame not suited for air travel, no matter what class. Mr. Davidson was slotted nicely in his seat, looking at ease in the crowded confines of an airplane seat. Must be nice to be short. </p>
<p>They stayed in a pod-style seating arrangement, Mr. Davidson sitting across from him, the paper divider that separated the boys from the rest of the public up. Clay was instructed that he was not to order anything— “ask Mr. Davidson to get you what you want”— or talk to anyone outside of the small group of “trusted individuals”. He was starting to feel more like a prisoner than a prince. </p>
<p>“Can I get you anything to drink, Your Highness?” The Duke asked. Clay shook his head, toying with the little shades that hung over the window. It’d grown dark outside, so all he could see was the artificially lit runway. Not even a nice sunset or something to send him off too a different country. </p>
<p>“It’ll be morning when we land, Your Highness. You should sleep so we can get started immediately.” Mr. Davidson tried again. Clay nodded, moving to finish his final texts before they took off. Nick was completely unaware of the situation, and Clay intended to keep him that way until he was off in England, and there was no way to change his mind. </p>
<p>“Your Highness-“</p>
<p>“Clay. It’s Clay.” He was annoyed with all of this ‘your highness’ business. He was a teenager from America, not the Queen. </p>
<p>“Your Highness.” Mr. Davidson did not relent. </p>
<p>“Clay.” Clay wasn’t going to either. </p>
<p>“Your. Highness.”</p>
<p>“My name is Clay.”</p>
<p>“Prince Clay.”</p>
<p>“Fine.” He crossed his arms, staring down Mr. Davidson. The other boy’s eyes had gone dark, almost black, in the odd lighting. “What do you want?” </p>
<p>“I have a packet for you to look through, if you aren’t going to sleep.” Mr. Davidson looked through his bag sitting near his feet, pulling out a thick manila folder. Clay almost groaned out loud. They hadn’t even left Florida and he already had homework. He grabbed the packet from the other, flicking through it. There were various pictures of random people, words lining the rest of the space.</p>
<p>“Well, your Highness-“ Clay glared at him. “Prince Clay. In an effort to not embarrass yourself, their Majesties have instructed me to inform you about all of the important social figures.” Clay read and listened. A whole packet just outlining the lives and titles of various socialites. Ugh.</p>
<p>“Any chance I can get out of this?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid not. Direct orders from their Majesties.” </p>
<p>Clay paused, stopping on a page that displayed some random Marquess he’d rather not talk to. The King and Queen, of course, would be his grandparents. Clay never thought about that before. Obviously he knew he had grandparents on his dad’s side, but he’d never bothered to look into it. Meeting his grandparents was something he wasn’t looking forward to. </p>
<p>“Her Majesty will be out of England when we arrive, but His Majesty is very excited to meet you.” Well, at least he’d only have to meet one at a time. It could be worse.</p>
<p>“And I have to memorize this because..?”</p>
<p>“Because you are not to embarrass the royal family.”</p>
<p>Clay was stunned to silence. The other had said it so plainly, so undramatically, it had the tone of discussing his breakfast. Don’t embarrass the royal family. How hard could that be? </p>
<p>“What, are they going to kill me if I trip over my own two feet?”</p>
<p>“Possibly.”</p>
<p>Clay couldn’t tell if Mr. Davidson was joking or not. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was half past nine when the plane touched down in Heathrow. Clay had been napping on and off for the last three hours, going from wide awake and excited to passed out cold. It never appeared to him that Mr. Davidson had slept at all, always awake when he was, typing away on his laptop with the airline internet. Clay wasn’t allowed access to the internet.</p>
<p>It was still early morning, according to Clay’s Florida body clock, and he was exhausted as he was shuffled off the plane and into the semi-busy airport. Eyes blurred over as he surveyed the people walking by his table in some random little café. Not even half an hour into a new country, and he found himself alone. Mr. Davidson had left him briefly to grab their bags and find the limo that waited for them. If it wasn’t four in the morning mentally, Clay would have been excited by the action around him. </p>
<p>“Hey. Let’s go.” Clay had only had his head on the table for a few minutes when Mr. Davidson came back, toting two suitcases and some random man by his side. The other man was tall and lanky, dressed in a very stereotypical driver’s outfit. Clay tried his hardest not to laugh. Apparently, they would be safe to walk around that airport, because Mr. Davidson was rarely recognized and no one knew who Clay was. </p>
<p>He took his bag back, taking lengthy strides through the airport, head lolling in exhaustion. The lights, sounds, and actions around him were forming the beginning of a headache, or anxiety, or both. The sun was high in the sky by now, much to the anguish of Clay. </p>
<p>The second thing that hit him as he joined the outside world was just how cold it was. Sure, the season hadn’t changed, but their spring was much colder than what he was used to. He was ill-prepared in the crumpled tee-shirt and shorts he’d come in. </p>
<p>“Why is it so damn cold!” He complained out loud. Mr. Davidson tsked as he continued to pack the bags away into the genuine, certified limo that sat waiting for them. Clay shivered and looked around, staring at the people walking around him. The sky was overcast, looking like it might rain in a little. </p>
<p>Mr. Davidson ushered them both into the limo, letting the door be closed gently behind them. Clay had never been in a limo before, nor did he think he ever would. It looked exactly how he had imagined it: polished, dim, and clean, with little mirrors and snacks and drinks everywhere. Every detail seemed to be in place, right to the little curtain that separated the driver from the passengers. </p>
<p>“Hey, Mr. D?”</p>
<p>“Don’t call me that.”</p>
<p>“Do you have a first name?”</p>
<p>Mr. Davidson sighed and looked out the tinted window, seemingly annoyed at either the question or the way it was asked. Little drops of rain began snaking their way down the glass panes, racing each other to the bottom. </p>
<p>“If you had bothered to read the packet I gave you, you would know.”</p>
<p>“You’re in here? I didn’t see.” Clay flipped through the packet, determined to find out every last bit of information he could on the duke who had been tasked to bring him to the castle. It was listed alphabetically, so it really wasn’t all that hard to find. Clay really just hadn’t bothered to look. In his defense, he was tired and agitated. </p>
<p>Mr. Davidson was actually George Henry Davidson, Duke of Manchester, followed by several other titles he didn’t bother to read. The picture displayed him smiling at the camera, some other man’s arm around his shoulder, at some royal event or another. Like every other time Clay had seen him, he looked pressed and polished, the definition of high class society. Clay’s eyes zoomed over the information presented, taking in everything he could get, from birthday to favorite foods. November 1st-- he’d have to remember that. It was starting to sink in that this arrangement was semi-permanent. </p>
<p>“Can I call you George?”</p>
<p>“No.” He was stoic, being much quieter than on the plane. Little sleep and lots of travel could do that to a person. </p>
<p>“Georgie?” </p>
<p>“Absolutely not. That would be inappropriate.” </p>
<p>“Georgie! Georgie!” He sang at the other boy. George leaned his head against the glass, probably completely done with Clay and his antics. It’s not like they’d probably ever see each other again, with George doing his own duties and Clay learning how to do his. The rain was coming down harder, cooling the interior of the limo significantly. Clay shivered involuntarily in his tee-shirt.</p>
<p>“Your Highness, it is incredibly inappropriate to call someone of your court by a nickname, especially if you’ve just met them.” George scolded him, like a small child. </p>
<p>“Does it matter? No one’s here. Just us.” Clay pointed around the space, the noticeably empty space. </p>
<p>  “It matters, Prince Clay, because if you start this habit now you’ll never break it, and others aren’t as forgiving about this kind of thing. They aren’t going to see a kid from Florida that doesn’t know better, they’re going to see a crown prince and future king. Act like it.” George tore his gaze away from the window to stare at Clay, expression hard and fierce with anger and.. something. Almost remorse.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading American Royalty! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. As always, questions and comments are always welcome!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4 - Hotels and Paparazzi</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay is officially stuck in England now, and immediately makes a scene. Typical. Also, George is still being obnoxious. Sorry George stans. Also, Sapnap is finally semi-introduced, so come get ya'lls juice Sapnap stans.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay was rushed from the back of the limo into the back of a hotel. George was pushing him into the door the moment cameras started clicking. Clay hadn’t even seen where the photographers had come from, but the parking lot was swarming with them now. He watched as the limo moved incrementally, trying to not run over any pedestrians on it’s path out of the parking lot.</p>
<p>“Who are they trying to get pictures of?” He asked, pressing his nose up to the glass. Cameras were trained at the door, waiting for any indication that the pair was coming back out. </p>
<p>“Me, probably. And the royal family’s special guest.” His voice was deadpan, with a hint of annoyance and contempt. Clay figured that George had done this very same thing way too many times, from the efficient way he had gotten them herded into a back room of some 5-Star hotel. </p>
<p>“Is it like this all the time?” George led them down a dim hallway, wheeling the suitcases behind him. </p>
<p>“Unfortunately. Once we reveal your identity it’s going to get worse. People around the world are going to want to know you. Here.” The shorter one turned around, holding out a small SIM card. “You’ll need this to use data. I’ll give you my number once we get settled. Emergencies only, got it?” At that point, Clay had stopped listening, busying himself with taking out his SIM card and replacing it. He couldn’t wait to text Nick, now that he was safely in England. </p>
<p><em>Guess what.</em> He texted. It was still early in the morning for Nick, so he didn’t expect a response any time soon. Notifications slowly started coming in from various things. He ignored them all.</p>
<p>“You’ll be staying in your own hotel room. Try to be civil? No room service, if you want something ask me first. Got it?” Clay nodded, rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>“Why are we at a hotel? And why can’t I do anything? I’m the prin-“</p>
<p>“Shh!” George turned around and put his hand over Clay’s mouth. “Don’t hint at your identity when you don’t know what kind of ears are around. You don’t want to start a rumor before you’re even announced.” His eyes were intense. “Do not mess this up, or I’ll have your head.” </p>
<p>“You’re not kidding about this, are you?”</p>
<p>“Does it look like I’m kidding?”</p>
<p>He definitely wasn’t kidding.</p>
<p>Clay nodded, and they continued the trek down the hallway. The hallway eventually opened to a reception area. Clay’s eyes widened at the sheer enormity of the area; at least thirty foot ceilings, the floor space comparable to a football field, crystal chandeliers. Dark reception desks lined the space, with several chairs and couches centered around a point in the middle which displayed a large fountain. What kind of hotel was this? </p>
<p>“If they were trying to be discrete, they failed.” Clay whispered, still blinking in awe of his surroundings. He’d never been in a building this nice.</p>
<p>“Only the best for His Royal Highness, even if people don’t know who you are yet.” The shorter responded. Their relationship was icy at best, but Clay was already devising a plan to get the poor kid to crack. He had a habit of making friends with everyone and anyone he could get his hands on. </p>
<p>Clay sat on the arm of a leather sofa as he waited for George to check them in. Patrons stroll in and out into the rain from the glass revolving doors. From the lobby, he could smell cooking food from some sort of in-house kitchen. His stomach grumbled in protest of not being fed since his take out last night, despite the many offers he stubbornly refused on the plane. His phone buzzed, startling him out of his food-induced trance. </p>
<p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p>
<p>It was Nick. </p>
<p>
  <em>I’m in England.</em>
</p>
<p>Clay waited for several minutes for Nick to reply back to him. Several times the “typing” bubble popped up, only to go away. </p>
<p>
  <em>No you’re not.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yes I am.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>You are not.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I really am.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Prove it.</em>
</p>
<p>Clay aimed his camera towards the lobby and George, taking a quick shot. Then, he took a picture of the dark outside, rain pouring down the windows at high velocity. He sent them both. </p>
<p><em>Dude.</em> Nick sent. <em>Wth.</em></p>
<p>Clay didn’t have time to type a response before an incoming facetime from Nick lit up his screen. He let it ring for a bit, trying to get a raise out of the other boy, before clicking accept. </p>
<p>“What the actual fuck do you mean you’re in England!” Nick shouted as soon as he was on screen. The Texan was disheveled and shirtless, presumably just haven woken up. Several patrons swiveled to look at Clay, as he blushed and ducked his head, lowering the volume. Nick looked as tired and furious as little pixels on a screen could be. </p>
<p>“Look, I’ll tell you everything when I get into the hotel room. I’m just in England. Well, London, I guess.”</p>
<p>“You were literally texting me last night, and when I wake up you’re in a different country? What the hell has gotten into you, dude?” Nick rubbed his face. “In one night you managed to get to another country. How?”</p>
<p>“Uh.. time zones?” </p>
<p>“Knock it off.” He sighed. “None of your bullshit. Seriously, how?”</p>
<p>Clay looked up to see George striding back to him purposely, two envelopes in hand. </p>
<p>“Look, Nick, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”</p>
<p>Nick’s protesting was cut short as Clay ended the call, head resting in his hand. His moment of rest didn’t last long though, as George roughly grabbed his wrist, dragging him from his comfy perch. Clay frowned, annoyed at this sudden intrusion. Before he could say anything, George was already ushering him into an elevator, getting ready to yell.</p>
<p>“What are you thinking!” He screeched as soon as the elevator doors closed. “Are you trying to cause problems, Your Highness!”</p>
<p>“Well no-”</p>
<p>“Because you’re starting to cause problems. I leave you for two minutes and you have everyone in the room’s attention! Can you not lay low for two minutes!”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry! I’ll try!” Clay yelled back, frustration from the past few days boiling over. The elevator was silent, save for the small dings as each floor passed. The air was so tight and tense it could have been cut with a knife. He was fuming, but biting his tongue. He should have let Nick talk him out of this trip. He should have fought harder. Instead, he was stuck in an elevator in a foreign country with a glorified babysitter who happened to be incredibly rude and intense. </p>
<p>The doors opened, revealing a group of people standing outside the elevator, waiting to be let in. George, once again, grabbed Clay’s wrist and marched him past the crowd, leaving the taller boy to drag their suitcases behind him. Clay’s phone was constantly buzzing away in his pocket, probably due to Nick’s insistence to know what the hell was going on. </p>
<p>George let go of Clay long enough to unlock a door, then shoved him inside. Clay stumbled but caught himself in the doorway. Upon inspection, George’s face was bright red in rage. He decided it was best to just shut up and listen. </p>
<p>“This is your room. Stay inside. I will know if you leave, so don’t try anything stupid. Got it?” Clay was handed the keycard as he nodded, still electing to not say anything in case he pissed George off. Again. </p>
<p>“Go ahead and nap, a stylist will be here in a few hours to get you all ready. I’m just across the hall if you need anything.” His voice and face was softer, obviously releasing some of the tension he was feeling earlier. Clay smiled at him, and continued to stare at the door even after George had shut it. Sighing, he waddled to the bed, flopping on it, phone in hand. He had a lot to tell Nick.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading American Royalty! As always, questions and comments are always welcome. Is this note section ever going to be the same every time? Probably not. Also, did you know you're reading a dyslexic's story? Fooled ya'll.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5 - Wake Up Calls</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Welp, we're back at it with the gay panic. Also, Nikki joins the crew! She might come back, she might not. Guess we'll have to see.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So you just flew to England, no questions asked?”</p>
<p>“I mean, essentially.” Clay ran his fingers through his hair, the other holding his phone up. Nick had been asking him questions over the speaker for almost an hour and a half at this point, and all Clay wanted to do was sleep.</p>
<p>“Shit, dude. What were you even thinking?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t, really. If they’d given me more time I would have fought harder. Maybe even ran away to come visit you.” The pair lived in separate states, Clay being a Florida native while Nick was a Texan one. They’d often discussed meeting each other, but it’d never really worked out for the both of them. </p>
<p>“Wouldn’t that be a headline. Gangly-ass Florida man running across state lines from the Secret Service and the royal guard.” They both laughed, falling silent on either end. The whole situation was too much for Clay to handle, and Nick must have felt a similar way.</p>
<p>“Nick?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“I’m so screwed, aren’t I?”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately.”</p>
<p>“Will you come visit me in the hellscape?”</p>
<p>“I’ll try my best.”</p>
<p>The pair talked for another half hour, before several yawns from Clay prompted them to hang up. He laid on his side, the cool pillow tickling his cheek as he stared at the plain, nonintrusive beige wall. The room was quiet, save for the quiet rush of the heater Clay had promptly turned on. He wanted to cry, wanted to scream, or punch, or something other than being subservient. </p>
<p>At the same time, he could spin the whole situation into a different light. This was an opportunity, really. An opportunity he wanted was another story, but still an opportunity. He would just have to get through the next few months without messing things up too badly. With a contented sigh, he sunk into his bed and fell asleep.     </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay wasn’t sure what had woken him up; the soft rustling of clothes, the sunshine that streamed through the window, or the glass of cold water that was unceremoniously dumped on him. </p>
<p>Oh wait. He definitely knew.</p>
<p>“What the hell!” He screeched, jumping up and promptly falling back down on the floor as his sheets refused to let go. The floor, being hardwood and stable, did nothing to cushion his fall. </p>
<p>“You wouldn’t wake up.” Called George, somewhere above and behind him. Clay groaned and put his face back into the floor, debating the merits of staying in soaking wet clothes or getting up to do whatever it is George wanted him to. On one hand, he was wet and shivering. On the other, he just wanted to go back to sleep and piss off the shorter man. </p>
<p>“I’d get up before you catch a cold, your Highness. Also, your stylist is here. We’re meeting with the King in.. two and a half hours.” Clay rolled his eyes, wanting to sink into the cold floor and disappear forever. In two and a half hours he’d have to face not only a figurehead of an entire country, but also his grandfather. He wasn’t sure which was a more terrifying thought.</p>
<p>“What did I say about calling me your Highness?” He asked, pushing up off the floor to sit up. Turning around, George was looking down at him with contempt. </p>
<p>“Not to. Force of habit, I guess, Prince Clay.” George laughed, entertained by the stricken face Clay pulled. Clay groaned and leaned his head against the bed, still exhausted. From the corner of his eye, he could vaguely see the shape of another person moving around the room, setting up suit after suit after suit. </p>
<p>“Do I really have to try all of those on?” He whined, looking up pleadingly at George. He hoped that giving him puppy dog eyes would lessen his fate. Damn short people and their resolve. </p>
<p>“Yes, your Highness. Please stand so we can start. You really don’t want to be late.” He could hear the thinly veiled threat behind the sentence, a subtle hint as to what to expect from his grandfather. Don’t make the King wait. Clay stood, letting the wet sheets fall off his body. His clothes, too, were soaked, the fabric clinging uncomfortably. With a sigh, he peeled his shirt off, throwing it to rest on the bed. George’s eyes snapped to Clay’s, making aggressive eye contact as his face turned just the slightest bit red.</p>
<p>Okay. He could work with this. </p>
<p>“Guess I’m ready whenever you are.” He bumped his shoulder into George’s as he walked past, causing the other to catapult into the half-wall that separated the bed from the living room/kitchen area of the hotel room. He strode over to the stylist, standing in any way she instructed as a sewing tape was run from shoulder to shoulder, then shoulder to wrist, then from his bare collarbones to his waist. George never once looked at him, instead leaning against the wall, typing away rapidly at his phone. </p>
<p>The stylist was a pretty girl, probably just younger than himself. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a low ponytail, clothes plain and black. Considering half the people in the room were ignoring him, he attempted to make conversation. </p>
<p>“I’m Clay, what’s your name?” Her blue eyes popped up to look at his face briefly, before getting back to measuring his waist. </p>
<p>“My n-name is Nikki, your Highness.” She had a faint foreign accent, like German or Dutch or something. Clay rolled his eyes and looked at the smooth, beige ceilings. Could not a single person act normal? He tried again.</p>
<p>“My name is Clay, please?” </p>
<p>“Of course, your Highness.” </p>
<p><em>Christ.</em> He thought. <em>This is going to get so obnoxious.</em> </p>
<p>“George.” He whined, trying to get the other’s attention. George looked up briefly before going back to his phone. </p>
<p>“I told you not to call me that.”</p>
<p>“And I told you not to call me your Highness.”</p>
<p>“Touché. What do you need?”</p>
<p>“Why does everyone act like I’m so special? I’m just Clay.”</p>
<p>He sighed, setting his phone on the top of the wall. Again, he refused to look anywhere but Clay’s eyes, making unflinching, intense eye contact. </p>
<p>“You aren’t just Clay. You’re the crown prince, the future King of this entire country. You are special, whether you want it or not. Now stop whining, Nikki’s been trying to get you to turn around for half a minute.”</p>
<p>Clay looked down, to see Nikki hesitantly looking at him. Begrudgingly, he turned to face another stupid beige wall, back turned to George and the stylist. The cold sewing tape sent shivers up his spine, as did the cold air. He hated England, he decided. England, with the cold weather and the insanely rude people. Not a single person he’s met has regarding him as a human being instead of a prized possession. </p>
<p>After being measured in just about every way you could imagine, he was being shoved in and out of all of the suits, trying to find the best fitting one on such a short notice. It felt like he’d been put in a hundred of the exact same outfit, but in reality it was only about ten slightly different ones. Who actually cared if the undershirt was cream or off white? Who was looking that closely? Everyone would be, he was assured by George. </p>
<p>He held up two ties, sighing. Both were red, one being slightly darker than the other. He didn’t really understand what the stylist was talking about when she was discussing color theory, but he knew she was testing him.</p>
<p>“This is hopeless. George, which one do I pick?” George looked up from his phone. Since Clay had gained a shirt, the shorter was more likely to look at him. </p>
<p>“I don’t know. I’m colorblind.” </p>
<p>Clay groaned for perhaps the millionth time today, picking a tie and random and throwing the other at the couch. Nikki sighed at either the choice he had made or the careless way he’d discarded the other. Nothing he did seemed to please the other two. It was probably going to be a running theme, he decided.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Thank you for reading American Royalty! As always, questions and comments are always welcome.<br/>Is anyone reading these? Is George too much of an asshole? All will be answered in time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6 - Tea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay is a nervous mess. That's about all. Also, apparently people do know who he is, which is a small problem. <br/>Also, real quick, I know that the heir laws surrounding the Royal family have changed, but for our purposes they haven't.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay wasn’t nervous. He wasn’t nervous as the limo pulled up and he piled in, legs having to rest against the seat of the other side. He wasn’t nervous as the scenery of London passed by, or even when he passed the guarded gates into the driveway of Buckingham Palace. He wasn’t nervous looking at the photographers that lined the circular driveway. He was nervous, however, when George told him to get out.</p>
<p>“Do I have to? Can’t we just turn around and go back to the hotel?” Clay bit his lip, peering at the crowds that had gathered. Their chatter was a dull roar that penetrated the otherwise quiet limo. George was, as he was in most cases, tapping away at his phone.</p>
<p>“Yes, Prince Clay. You have to go. The King is expecting you.” He glanced out the window, sighing. “You’ll get used to all of this, I promise.”</p>
<p>“I don’t even want to be here long enough to get used to it. I want to go home. I’m the prince, can’t I just like, order you to take me home?” </p>
<p>“No, because even though you’re the prince, my orders come from the Majesties themselves. You cannot override them. Now get going, all of this stalling is going to make you look bad.”</p>
<p>George was looking at his phone, brows scrunched in concentration as he read something. Clay silently pleaded with him, trying to get the other to give in. George looked up at Clay and sighed.</p>
<p>“Would you feel more comfortable if I went first?” </p>
<p>“Yes please.” Well, it was something at the very least. </p>
<p>George pocketed his phone and straightened his tie, opening the door and sliding out gracefully. The crowd noise increased tenfold, causing Clay to flinch back and hesitate. He watched from the seat as George waved amicably at the crowd, hundreds of people surging forward, yelling questions and compliments. Clay took a deep breath before joining him, gently closing the door behind him. </p>
<p>The noise just about drowned out all of Clay’s thoughts as he followed George’s example. He had to remind himself that these people didn’t know who he was, or where he came from, or what he was here for. He was at the castle, and that was it. </p>
<p>Well, he thought that, until someone shouted “Prince Clay!” from the crowd. </p>
<p>Clay’s eyes went wide in fear, and George visibly stiffened beside him. Panic filled his whole body, from his head to his toes. It took everything Clay had to not tremble. </p>
<p>“I thought you said they don’t know me!” He screeched. George just shrugged, grabbing his wrist discreetly, tugging at it to get Clay moving.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. Someone must have told the press. We need to get going.” The ever calm George dragged the taller boy away. Police and royal guards alike pushed back the hundreds of cameras that surged towards the boys. He only hoped that whatever pictures they were getting of his visible terror were blurry and unusable. </p>
<p>Inside the foyer was quiet. The whole inside of Buckingham Palace had been shut down for this very rare occasion, locking all of the tourists out of the interior. The palace was, in all honesty, exactly what he expected. The high walls were covered with ornate, old pieces of art. The ceilings were painted in gold and bronze, in dizzying patterns. Rich, red carpets squished under his brand new, shiny shoes. But all of the fantastical sights could not block out the thoughts of his very first public appearance. </p>
<p>“George. How did they know my name!”</p>
<p>“I told you, I don’t know. Stop asking. We’re almost late.”</p>
<p>Right. The most important engagement of his life that he was trying desperately to delay. Meeting his grandpa. </p>
<p>They walked through the dizzyingly lavish halls, one after another after another. There was absolutely no way in Clay’s mind that he would ever get used to the sheer size and complexity of the palace. No, not just a palace, his new temporary home. </p>
<p>Or at least he thought, the complexity of royal drama confused him. </p>
<p>“So, will I live here, when I get stuck in this whole Prince roll?” </p>
<p>George side eyed him, holding back an evident laugh. It wasn’t his fault that he hadn’t grown up around all of this stuff. Even so, he probably would have been just as clueless. Clay would have never laughed at George if he didn’t know something commoners did.</p>
<p>“No, Prince Clay. You’ll most likely take up residence in Kensington Palace, at least until you become King.”</p>
<p>“And there’s absolutely no way I can get out of this? Did my dad not have any siblings or something?”</p>
<p>“He did, a sister. But British law dictates that the male heir-”</p>
<p>“That’s bullshit! She deserves a chance! She probably knows more about running a country that I do!”</p>
<p>“I never said it wasn’t. But unless you would like to fight centuries of tradition mixed with prejudiced old white men, you just have to suck it up. Also, stop swearing. This is the royal palace, at least try to act civil?” </p>
<p>Clay grumbled his complaints under his breath. Great, another family member he would have to meet. And if he remembered his 6th grade Social Studies class right, pretty much all of the royal families from around the world were related. He wondered what a family reunion would look like? Would they all fit in this palace? Would they rent out an island? That was not something he was looking forward to. </p>
<p>They stopped at a pair of large oak doors, looming with golden doorknobs and intricate patterns expertly carved into them. </p>
<p>“Right. You’ll be having tea with the King. Try to copy his actions; he’ll be understanding if you mess up but some others won’t. When we have time I’ll give you a proper lesson on etiquette. Ready?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not. And you are going to give me a lesson? What?”</p>
<p>“No time, you’re a minute late.” Clay went to turn the handle, taking a deep breath. He was ready. He could do this. It was just his grandpa, after all. He was probably frail and grey. George reached out to put his hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Hey. Relax. You’ve got this.”</p>
<p>For the first time, George gave Clay a genuine smile. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Turns out, Clay’s grandpa was neither frail nor grey. </p>
<p>A rather burley man sat at a small round table, green eyes scanning the newspaper in front of him. A plate of cookies had been set out, along with two tea cups and a teapot. His grandfather's blond hair was cropped short, just shy of a buzzcut. He had the face of a drill sergeant, age just slightly drooping the creases of his skin. Clay cleared his throat, dropping into a bow George had made him practice before he left the hotel. He was suddenly very glad for George’s last minute lectures. </p>
<p>The scraping of a chair on hardwood followed immediately afterwards. Clay was sweating in his brand new suit, probably ruining the silk or cotton or whatever it was made out of. Don’t get up until he is told to. The King circled him once, twice, thrice. Clay closed his eyes tight every time the King’s shoes weren’t in sight, reminding himself to breath. </p>
<p>Strong arms encased his entire upper body, pulling him from a bowing position to being suffocated in the armpit of the blue suit his grandfather was wearing. Clay’s whole body seized, not sure what to do. Should he hug back? Should he try to get out? What would offend the King more? </p>
<p>Clay must have stood still in fear for too long, because the King backed off, grasping his shoulders and ducking his head to study Clay’s face. He was used to feeling tall compared to other people, but his grandpa dwarfed him. No one had told Clay that his grandpa was part gorilla. </p>
<p>“Clay! You look just like your father!” He exclaimed, voice booming and filling the room. Clay felt like he had just stood next to a runway as a jet took off.</p>
<p>“Your Majesty. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He tried, still trying to shake off the fear and shock that rang through his whole body. The King, apparently, was not done. </p>
<p>“Come sit, son. We have so much to discuss!” Without his consent, Clay’s hand was taken from his side and tugged at. He let his body be led to the extra chair, sitting on edge as the King took his. His palms were sweaty, he tried to keep them at bay by routinely wiping them on his pants. </p>
<p>He watched idly as the King poured him a cup of tea, not sure if  he should have offered to do it. Taking it, he wrinkled his nose looking at his brown-tinted reflection that stared back. The smell was strong, and the cup borderline burnt his hands as he used it to steady himself. He never really did like tea. </p>
<p>This was going to be a long meeting.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Thank you for reading American Royalty! As always, questions and comments are always welcome. <br/>I once again ask if anyone is actually reading this, or if I'm screaming into the void. Either works, really. The next chapter is going to be longer than this one, so watch out for that.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7 - Awkwardness and Escapades</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay is awkward. Well, we all knew that, but we get to see that in full action.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a long meeting, by Clay’s standards. </p>
<p>Almost three hours and two teapots later, he was finally released from the King’s clutches. They talked about everything, from Clay’s hobbies to the possibility of getting him married off (which he was less than thrilled about). Heeding George’s warning, Clay had elected to not tell his grandpa— who looked very much like a prejudiced old white man— about his sexuality just yet. </p>
<p>George leaned on the wall outside the doors, tapping away at his phone when Clay was finally able to get out of the stuffy room. He breathed a sigh of relief, a familiar face would be able to guide him through the halls as he calmed him racing heart. Clay wasn’t sure that having his heart going at a hundred miles an hour for three hours was healthy. Mostly, he wanted some fresh air and a nap. </p>
<p>“How did it go?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Clay started. “It went.” </p>
<p>“You didn’t offend one of the most important members of the state, did you?”</p>
<p>“Uh.. I don’t think I did?”</p>
<p>George shook his head, pocketing his phone. The pair walked back down the long, strange corridors, back to where they had come from. The journey sparked a memory in Clay’s brain, which was fatigued and more than a little unfiltered.</p>
<p>“Hey, you mentioned that you’d be giving me lessons? What’s that about?”</p>
<p>“Did no one tell you? I’m essentially your personal tutor on all things royal until you’re ready to go.”</p>
<p>“Damn, now you’re stuck with me. almost feel bad.”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately. Are you ready to go, Your Highness?” George had a smile on his face, sickly and forced compared to the real one he had given early. Something deep in Clay’s heart pinged, struck with sadness and a little bit of pity. </p>
<p>“Did you choose to be my tutor?” </p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Let me guess, the crown told you to do it.”</p>
<p>“Hit the nail right on the head.”</p>
<p>Clay paused, gears in his head turning every so slightly. They were in an unfamiliar hall— well, all of the halls were unfamiliar to him. He stood with a large statue by his side.</p>
<p>“Why do you do everything the crown tells you to? They’re got going to execute you for saying no.” </p>
<p>George stopped, sighing, his back to Clay. He brought his hands up to his face, then turned ever so slightly to catch Clay out of the corner of his eye. </p>
<p>“The family and their descendants have a lot of secrets, Prince Clay. Sometimes those secrets can be a fate worse than death.” </p>
<p>They didn’t say anything else, save for small pleasantries. They didn’t say anything as the rain fell down over London, nor when they split paths in the hotel. George didn’t even bother to repeat Clay’s goodbye as they stood at opposing doors. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Three hours later, Nick and Clay were back on the phone, both of them on their laptops. Clay had about ten tabs open, each displaying some random article on the royal family. He’d carefully avoided any mention of George and his background, respecting the privacy of the only person in this whole mess he personally knew.</p>
<p>“Dude!” Nick groaned, the noise coming across slightly staticky. “This is so stupid. Who needs twenty thousand titles that all mean the same thing!” </p>
<p>Nick had ever so graciously volunteered to help in Clay’s search. The pair poured over webpage after webpage, comparing notes and checking the understanding of the other. Clay was extremely bad at this whole thing, and Nick really wasn’t all that much better. </p>
<p>George hadn’t specified what Clay’s schedule for the rest of the day looked like, nor was he given George’s number like he was promised. Even if he had, Clay wasn’t sure if he actually wanted to talk to George. The conversation from a few hours played in his mind in a loop. No matter how hard he tried, he always found himself back into the memory, painstakingly analyzing every single word. Even as Clay tried to convince himself that he stayed away from George out of respect, he knew deep down that fear also played a role. </p>
<p>“Clay? Clay? Earth to Clay.” Nick half-yelled over the phone. Clay startled out of his thoughts, throwing his head back and hitting the wooden headboard with a loud “thump”. Clay groaned and rubbed the back of his head.</p>
<p>“Dude-“ Nick paused, trying to calm his laughter. “Did you just hit your head.” </p>
<p>“Shut up.” Clay mumbled while rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>“Thinking about that cute girl— what was her name— Nikki? Or maybe even that guy, his name was George, you said?” Clay’s face blushed over ever so slightly.</p>
<p>“Seriously, Nick, shut the hell up.”</p>
<p>“So you were thinking about someone! Is Clay crushing?”</p>
<p>“It’s none of your business.”</p>
<p>“Clay, as your one and only friend, it’s always my business. Spill.” </p>
<p>“Fine. I was thinking about… George.” Clay sighed, waiting for Nick to say something. The other end was silent, so he continued.</p>
<p>“He said something weird today, so it’s just been on my mind. Something about how some secrets are worse than death, or whatever. I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Look, dude. I’m straight, so I can’t really discuss your boy troubles,” Clay snorted, interrupting. “But you should probably just talk to him. What’s the worst that could happen?” </p>
<p>“He could hate me.”</p>
<p>“And he’s stuck with you. He’ll either get over it or suffer.”</p>
<p>Clay pondered this for a moment, rolling around the idea like a marble on a track. Really, what was the worst that could happen. George could shut him out, sure, but Clay always had Nick. And his mom. Who he definitely should call soon. It was late evening, and he was hungry and tired, so he figured he’d get to that later.</p>
<p>“So much as happened today that I’m having a hard time comprehending the whole thing. Maybe I should sleep on it.” </p>
<p>“Probably for the best. I got homework to do, so I’ll talk to you soon, alright? Don’t let this whole thing stress you out too much.”</p>
<p>“How can I not! The whole thing is stress incarnated.”</p>
<p>The boys said their pleasant goodbyes before hanging up. Clay briefly pondered the consequences of asking George for food, but decided against pushing his boundaries any more for the day. The whole arrangement couldn’t be all that easy on him, either. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay couldn’t sleep.</p>
<p>He was tired, for sure, but still couldn’t sleep. The shadows and noise of downtown London kept him up. Routinely, light would shine from his window into his eyes, keeping him from fully falling asleep. There were no crickets, no owls, no nothing that reminded him of his room in the suburbs of swampy Florida. It wasn’t even hot enough, despite the fact that he had cranked up the heater as high as he dared. </p>
<p>Crawling out of bed, he flipped the switch on the lamp on the bedside table, illuminating the space with a soft, buttery glow that made him blink rapidly. The illuminated clock read half past three. Staring at the door, he contemplated going outside to see anyone, even if it was just the overnight hotel staff. George had told him that he would know if he left, but how? And at three in the morning? </p>
<p>The decision was made. Slipping on a shirt and some fuzzy slippers he had found in the closet, Clay grabbed his key and phone before quietly slipping out into the hall, shutting the door softly behind him. The halls were light in that same butter-yellow, which was something that always freaked him out about hotels. Staring and blinking at George’s door, he dared for the other to come out and catch him in his task. But after a minute of silence, Clay figured he was safe to go. </p>
<p>The lobby was just as grand as he remembered. Really, he felt underdressed in a plain white tee-shirt, fuzzy white slippers, and black sleeping shorts with ducks on them. Even the night staff worse pristine maroon uniforms. He watched them idly as he sunk into the leather couch, tiredness blurring his eyes. Once or twice, he thought he saw that shadows or large, uniformed men who lingered just out of eyesight. But he couldn’t be sure.</p>
<p>The elevator doors opened with a ding, as Clay dragged his attention back over to them. A blurry figure came storming out, directly at him. Whatever, it was probably some random drunk person. He closed his eyes, leaning back against the sofa.</p>
<p>“Clay."</p>
<p>He let out a little “hm” noise, far too busy relaxing to fully understand what was going on.</p>
<p>“Clay. Get up. Now.”</p>
<p>Something was familiar about the voice that called to him, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. A cousin, perhaps? A classmate? What was a classmate doing all the way out here in London?</p>
<p>An icy cold hand grabbed around his wrist, sending shock throughout his whole body. His vision and mind cleared, revealing a fuming George whose face was only inches away from his own. Somehow, George had found out about his escapade, but that was less important that the fact that George’s face was only a couple of inches away from his face and-</p>
<p>“Clay. It’s time to go back to bed. Come on.” </p>
<p>Clay blinked, trying to push himself back into reality. George moved away from him and Clay almost whined, the cold air biting his skin where the other’s hot breath had just been. It would have been incredibly awkward if he was awake. </p>
<p>Slowly, and unsteadily, he stood, grabbing onto George for support. The pair marched back to the elevator, Clay slumped over into George’s side. If there was any impatience or anger, Clay couldn’t sense it.</p>
<p>They stood outside their respective doors, standing a hallway apart from each other. George was watching to make sure that Clay made his way back to bed. They both opened their door, but Clay stopped before taking the first step. </p>
<p>“Hey, George?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Can you spend the night in my room, please?”</p>
<p>George hesitated, half a second away from closing the door. He chewed on his lip, considering the options.</p>
<p>“No, Clay. Go to sleep.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello hello! Thank you for reading the chapter of American Royalty! As always, comments and questions are always appreciated. Also, how do we feel about a Christmas one shot?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8 - Breakfast and Planes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Well, it's high time to be getting back on the plane. Yes, this chapter is really short, but I gave up on it, so you get what you get.  Also, banter? We're getting banter? Woo!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunshine split the curtains of Clay’s room, a wake up call he had grown familiar with. Several days into his stay had gone by. George had been hard at work attempting to give Clay an education on royal life, to catch him up with the people his age who had been learning this from the day they were born.</p>
<p>Suffice to say, Clay was not a natural. </p>
<p>Two knocks sounded at the door before George busted in with breakfast on a tray. Eating breakfast together had become their daily morning routine, before Nikki came in to get him ready for the day. Nikki, turns out, was also stationed somewhere on the other side of the hotel. After his first night’s escapade, he never went out to explore again without George by his side, fearing another “stern talking to”. </p>
<p>“Good morning, your Highness.” He chirped, setting the tray down gently on the table without so much as a scrape or bump. That was something Clay was really bad at, the gentle aspects of the whole thing. Well, he was bad at everything, but being gentle was something he was particularly bad at. </p>
<p>“Morning.” He squinted at the sun and stretched, letting the blankets fall off him. George, for his credit, was forcing himself not to look at Clay, instead busying himself with setting up the table. </p>
<p>“What’s on the agenda for today, George?”</p>
<p>The other scoffed, sitting politely in his chair as Clay came to sit. They were still both slightly on edge when it was just the two of them, but slowly and gradually the awkwardness had faded to make way for friendly banter and, as dumb as it sounded, royal gossip.</p>
<p>“Nothing much, as far as I know. Her majesty is flying in tomorrow and you’ll have your first meeting after that, so perhaps we should work on table manners.” George sent a pointed look at Clay’s elbows which settled on the table. He blushed and put them in his lap.</p>
<p>“Is she scarier than my grandpa? Because he wasn’t all that bad.”</p>
<p>“Much more. She makes practically all of the decisions nowadays. The King’s a puppy dog compared to her.” </p>
<p>“Thanks for inspiring confidence. Much appreciated, asshole.” </p>
<p>“You’re welcome. Also, I think some of the ladies of the court want to meet you. All old, rich ladies who spend their husband’s money, so don’t worry. You won’t have to meet any potential wives just yet.”</p>
<p>Clay rolled his eyes, dutifully cutting the omelet he had been provided. He’d been carefully avoiding that specific topic. He wasn’t so delusional to think that he could avoid it forever (George had made it very clear that he needed to marry to take the crown), but he’d keep it as far away for as long as possible. </p>
<p>“Old ladies pinching my cheeks and discussing how much I’ve grown? Sounds fun.”</p>
<p>“They’ll have a lot to talk about concerning your growth, seeing as most of them haven’t seen you since you were a baby.” </p>
<p>“Excuse you, I am still very much youthful.” Clay adopted a horrific, fake English accent, spraying his hand over his heart. George smiled and ducked his head, suddenly very interesting in his toast.</p>
<p>“Of course, your Highness. Very youthful indeed.” </p>
<p>Their conversation petered out to small comments in between large bite, scraping forks, and the ever present tapping at George’s phone. So much for table manners. </p>
<p>Clay had yet to work up the courage to confront George about his odd remarks, despite monumental encouragement from Nick. It never felt like the right time, or they were both tired, or busy, or occupied with about a hundred other things. Daily breakfasts were the only real time they spent alone, just doing and thinking about very little. Or, at least, in Clay’s opinion. He never could quite pin down what George was thinking about. </p>
<p>“Change of plans, we’re going out this afternoon.” Clay raised his eyebrows slightly, as George peaked his eyes above the screen, rolling them. “Not like that. I’m considering it a field lesson on how to treat non-royals. Our plane leaves at noon, so you have some time.”</p>
<p>“Plane? Where are we going? </p>
<p>“Edinburgh, to visit the Holyrood Palace. We’re going to test you in the wild.” Clay took a bite, chewing on the information given. </p>
<p>“Is anyone else going to be there?”</p>
<p>“Nope. Just us. The smaller number of family members there are, the better we can judge what you need to work on.”</p>
<p>“C’mon George, you know I need to work on everything. This isn’t fair. Also, is it too late to ask where Edinburgh is?”</p>
<p>“Are you-”</p>
<p>“I’m kidding, George. It’s the capital of Ireland, right?”</p>
<p>Clay swore that if he wasn’t the Prince, George’s tea would have been splashed over his bare chest. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay adjusted his tie, looking at his appearance in the long mirror that hung on the inside of the closet door. He barely recognized himself, out of the tee-shirt and shorts he was accustomed to. The way the gold cufflinks sparkled in the lights. The way Nikki styled his hair like some rich kid who goes to a private school in Switzerland. It all dressed him up as someone important, someone who belonged, instead of some scrawny kid from Florida. Sometimes, it made him sick.</p>
<p>George was tapping away at his phone, responding to some email or another, munching on a bran muffin. Seriously, who eats bran muffins? Psychopaths and Dukes, apparently. Clay hoped that the most boring food on the planet wasn’t regularly part of a royal’s diet.</p>
<p>“The plane is leaving Heathrow in a few hours. In order to keep a low profile, we’ll be going through regular airport security.”</p>
<p>“Still first class though?”</p>
<p>“Oh course. Who do you think I am.” George’s eyes were gleaming with humor as he glanced up at Clay. It was an expression that Clay enjoyed immensely (though he’d never admit to it). It was a rare and fleeting look, one of pure concentrated joy. It made Clay’s stomach flutter, which is something else he would never admit to. </p>
<p>“Of course, I forgot you were the great Duke of Manchester. I bow before you, my Lord.” </p>
<p>“Stop it. Mr. Luke will be around to grab our things soon, so I’d pack up whatever extras you want to take.”</p>
<p>“How long are we staying?”</p>
<p>“A few days. The Crown has paid a small inn to host us for a bit.”</p>
<p>“You mean I get to run around Scotland alone for a few days? Sweet.”</p>
<p>“You will not be running around anything. We’ll be too busy, I assure you.”</p>
<p>Clay rolled his eyes, grabbing his charger from the bedside table and shoving it into a backpack. With all of his clothes being taken care of, there was very little he actually needed, save for toiletries. It was kind of hard to wrap his head around how much things had changed for him. </p>
<p>“I thought you said that we were going to meet the Queen tomorrow though?”</p>
<p>“A storm in South Africa has delayed her flight by a few days, so we’ll have time. Are you really that eager to meet her?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“I figured as much. Count your blessings.”</p>
<p>With a light bag and an even lighter heart, the pair left the hotel.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yo! Thank you so much for reading this chapter of American Royalty. I feel like I say this all the time, but it's true. Questions and comments are always appreciated. I'm going to attempt to post a Christmas oneshot on Christmas, so we'll see how that goes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9 - Rain and Risks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>They made it to Scotland! Checking into a hotel is going to be a breeze, right? No. Oh, quick note, because Clay is meant to be a high schooler, I scaled their ages back just a bit. Cool? Okay.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was just about dinner time when the plane touched down in Edinburgh Airport. The pair were quickly rushed through security, as members of the royal guard were already there to escort them to and from wherever they needed to go.</p>
<p>The most striking part, in Clay’s mind, was George. They’d both changed into more casual clothing in an effort to blend in, and the rough fabric of cargo pants were second nature to him. On the other hand, George looked incredibly uncomfortable in a black hoodie and jeans, a baseball cap pulled down over his forehead. Sunglasses shaded any indication of how his friend— well, as close of a friend as he had here— felt. The pair had changed on the plane, bumping and pushing each other in the small cabin. To any bystander they looked like two boys that had just walked off a plane together, save for the very obvious heightened security that seemed to follow their path. </p>
<p>It was raining in Scotland, as it usually was. Clay regretted his decision to wear shorts. The temperature difference between March in Florida and March in the U.K. was still kicking his ass. He hoped that the summer months would provide some relief, or the better option, he’d be home by then. He felt weird and itchy, looking at the people dressed just like him, but had no idea who he was. Clay wasn’t proud, or arrogant, but the thought that every person had a life like he did made his skin crawl. </p>
<p>The inn was, in short, beautiful. The architecture that he’d come to describe as uniquely not Florida-like was apparent, with the stone walls and ivy that creeped along the sides like a snake. He wasn’t even sure if that species of ivy could grow in Florida. The windows were tall and narrow, many with black lacing. Shiny, tawny floors were uneven and cracked, creaking with every step he took. A chimney puffed out smoke into the dark sky. That was another thing Clay wasn’t used to, non-decorative fireplaces. You didn’t need external sources of heat when it was routinely above sixty degrees, and even if you did, heaters existed. </p>
<p>Another thing he couldn’t quite grasp was how much history everything seemed to hold. Of course there was history in Florida, but here every single building seemed to be important to some sort of event. He was scared to sit on the chair in the lobby as George checked them in, lest it fall apart and he ruined history. </p>
<p>The owner of the inn left the front desk, claiming that he was going to check their room. George sat next to Clay, knees touching one another. </p>
<p>“This place is..” Clay looked around, trying to gather the words. “Pretty.”</p>
<p>“If you think this place is pretty, you’re going to love Balmoral Castle.”</p>
<p>“Balmoral Castle is where, exactly?”</p>
<p>“Aberdeenshire. The Queen uses it as her summer home.”</p>
<p>“Royals have summer homes?”</p>
<p>George turned to look at him, flipping his sunglasses up so he could squint at the other boy. Clay just shrugged, unashamed at some of his stupid questions. </p>
<p>“Yes, Prince Clay. Royals have summer homes.” </p>
<p>They fell into silence, listening to the rain drumming on the glass windows, the steady ticking of the large grandfather clock, and the popping and sizzling of the fire.</p>
<p>“Hey, George?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“How old are you?”</p>
<p>George sighed, bringing his hand to drag down his face.</p>
<p>“I’m twenty one, Clay.”</p>
<p>“Oh, so you can buy me alcohol?”</p>
<p>“First of all, no. Second of all, you can buy it yourself. You’re eighteen.”</p>
<p>“How are you,” Clay paused, inspecting the shorter boy. “How are you older than me?”</p>
<p>“Uh, I was born first? What kind of question is that?”</p>
<p>Clay sat in silence, chewing on the bits of information he’d been fed. He couldn’t believe that George was older than him. He certainly didn’t look like it, and he thought the more mature aura had to do with the fact that he was raised royal. The second big revelation was that he could legally drink in this stupid country. Being drunk could possibly make the whole situation better.</p>
<p>Or exponentially worse. </p>
<p>He’d take his chances. </p>
<p>George stood again as the innkeeper came back, face flushed with a deep red tint. Clay’s eyes wandered as they talked, from the beamed ceilings, to the bricks on the fireplace, to George’s ass— no. He was looking at the intricately carved desk, obviously. </p>
<p>Spaced out, Clay didn’t even notice that George had moved in front of him, until the latter was obnoxiously snapping his fingers in front of his face. </p>
<p>“What? What’s up?”</p>
<p>“We have a problem.”</p>
<p>Clay shook his head, giving a “what do you want me to do about it” look.</p>
<p>“The inn made a mistake, there’s only one bed in our room.”</p>
<p>“So the problem is…?”</p>
<p>“There’s one bed.”</p>
<p>“Okay, so the problem is what? I’ll sleep on the floor or something.”</p>
<p>“You can’t sleep on the floor! You’re the-” George paused, lowering his voice and head. “You’re the prince. Prince’s don’t sleep on the floor.”</p>
<p>“I think you know by now that I am in no way, shape, or form traditional. I’ll survive laying on the floor. If it concerns you so much, we can sleep on the bed together?” </p>
<p>George’s head snapped away immediately, suddenly very focused on the roaring fireplace. It was a bold move on Clay’s part, suggesting that. There was nothing wrong with sharing a bed with your pal. Buddy. Amigo. His crush— not, it was not a crush, stop it— could survive a few days. </p>
<p>“Fine. Just until we get a new room.” George refused to look Clay in the eyes.</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The pair settled in their room, a fire being already lit the moment they got there. Clay hoped that George had some knowledge on how to work it, or that someone would come around and do it for them, because he had absolutely no clue. Immediately, Clay flopped on the bed, letting Mr. Luke-- or Punz, as he liked to be called-- hauled all of their suitcases into the room. Nikki wasn’t even allowed to go with them, so for the first time since he’s been here, he would have to dress himself. That was a daunting task. Considering he couldn’t even choose the right shade of red on his first try, he didn’t have hope. </p>
<p>George was being the responsible one of the pair, putting their clothes away and hanging up whatever needed to be hung up in the small closet, that definitely could not hold four days worth of suit jackets and white shirts for two men. That was probably the last thing on Clay’s mind though. What he was really thinking about, was that he took up nearly the entire bed by himself, so how in the hell were they both meant to fit?</p>
<p><em>Yo Nick.</em> He sent, dropping his phone on his chest as his eyes tracked George.</p>
<p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I kinda told George that we could sleep on the same bed.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Dude! Congrats!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Nick, that’s a bad thing.</em>
</p>
<p>Clay waited and waited, but no response came from Nick. He groaned loudly, bouncing his head off of the bed. George looked over lightly, probably more as a reaction to the noise than actual concern. The rain continued to hit the glass like a thousand tiny drums, creating a sleepy rhythm. </p>
<p>But he was also hungry, so that came first.</p>
<p>“George!” He whined, dragging out the last syllable in an attempt to get his attention. His face was flushed from the change to hot from cold, legs and arms sprawled out across the bed. George briefly looked at him, before quickly looking away and busying himself with reorganizing the shirts. </p>
<p>“Yes, Prince Clay?”</p>
<p>“I’m hungry.”</p>
<p>“I figured as much. What do you want to eat?”</p>
<p>What did he want? He was in Scotland for the very first time, and should probably have some of the local food. On the other hand, he’d had plenty of traditional, fancy English food, and just wanted something plain, something he’d find at home. </p>
<p>“Pizza.”</p>
<p>“Are you kidding? Absolutely not. Princes don’t eat pizza. Pick something else.”</p>
<p>“George please?” Once again, he whined at the other boy, dragging out the syllables. “I haven’t had pizza in forever and I really miss it. Please?”</p>
<p>George sighed, bending over to pick up all of the ties that still laid on the ground. Clay pouted, trying to use his puppy dog eyes through his back. </p>
<p>“I can feel you looking at me. You’re not getting pizza. Stop it.”</p>
<p>“George.” </p>
<p>They ended up getting pizza anyway.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello! Thanks again for reading this chapter of American Royalty. Questions and comments are always appreciated. I like seeing what you guys think, and what your predictions are. I promise I'm not scary of judgy (I'm writing a DNF fanfic for Christ's sake, I have no room to judge).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10 - Sleeping Attraction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bam! It's another chapter. Guess what pals, it's cuddle time. This chapter is so-so in my eyes, but you get what you get.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was bedtime, in George’s and Clay’s room. Hard-won pizza boxes littered the table. Clay lounged around on the bed, wet hair dripping onto the sheets, considering he had already showered and hopped into pajamas, or in this case, a tee-shirt and long, fuzzy, plaid bottoms. What could he say? It was cold. George had even given him a small lecture on the different types of tartan important to different families, but Clay could honestly not care less about the difference between Black Watch and Modern Douglas. </p><p>The shower was running in the other room, a sign of George’s presence in the otherwise spotless room (also courtesy of George). If it was up to Clay, all of the clothing would be strewn about anywhere that was decently clean.</p><p>Clay’s mind drifted as the shower squeaked and shut off. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered George’s footsteps, but he was more concerned with the patterns on the ceiling. He’d been told that this building had sat here since the 1800’s (which, to his astonishment, was not old according to most English people). Did every odd stain on the ceiling have a worthy story? Probably not. In that case, was he also one of these stains? A puzzle piece in history that meant very little? </p><p>“..ly? Prince Clay.” </p><p>His attention snapped to George, then quickly to anything else in the room. The ceiling, the box T.V., the pizza boxes. George— damn him— had come out of the bathroom in just blue boxers. What the hell. </p><p>If he was in an anime, his nose would have started to bleed. Being in real life, however, his nose decided to bleed right then and there. Like a bitch. </p><p>“Shit! Clay, look!” Sticky liquid ran down his face, taking a pitstop at his lips and pooling at his chin, dripping onto his white tee shirt. Clay pinched his nose; tipping his head back. The taste of blood made him gag. Why did the universe hate him? </p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“I got it, I got it.” Clay mumbled, internally swearing. Of course, George was concerned, and of course his pretty little face was shoved into Clay’s, brown eyes twinkling with concern. And of course, their chests were close enough that Clay could feel his body heat because they were so close. Clay’s cheeks flushed, either at the proximity of the pure embarrassment he felt in this situation. </p><p>“Here- go to the bathroom.” George helped him sit up— which was more of an annoyance than actual help— a guided Clay to the bathroom. The blond shut the door in George’s face, wanting just a minute to himself.</p><p>He stood over the sink, watching the crimson red make spots in the otherwise pristine, white sink. His reflection was orange, backlighting making his already tan skin even more so. His green eyes seemed to taunt him, wondering if he’d either figure out how he feels or get over it. The bags under his eyes screamed at him, daring him to stop pretending to be something he wasn’t. </p><p>The mirror was cursed, obviously, so he looked away, grabbing some tissue to shove up his nose. </p><p>“Prince Clay? Are you alright?”</p><p>“I’m fine, promise.” His voice was nasally, a reflection of the tissue paper currently stuffed deep into his right nostril. </p><p>George didn’t reply, just shuffled off to do who-knows-what. Clay turned on the tap, watching the clear water flush the blood away. He sighed, cupping his hand to splash some of the water over his face. It tasted much better than public Florida water.</p><p> </p><p>When Clay’s nose was safely non-bloody, he returned to the main bedroom. George was already asleep, curled up under the blankets, letting out tiny breaths. Clay sighed, once again being reminded of just how small the bed was. He would have to play Tetris with his body just to fit and not touch. If George moved, both of them were screwed. </p><p>            Clay slid into bed, flipping and flopping to be comfortable, yet having enough space between the two boys he wouldn’t be tempted to cuddle. He was cold, and cramped, and more than a little cranky. The crackling of the fire made his eyes shoot open every single time. The only solace was George’s steady breaths, which eventually led to his dreams. </p><p> </p><p>Clay woke up with the sun shining in, something warm and squishy in his arms. Instinctively, he gave it a little squeeze, groaning and pushing his face farther into whatever was right in front of him.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>The only other warm squishy thing on this bed was George. </p><p>Clay threw open his eyes. George was already awake, laying idly in Clay’s embrace, responding to emails on his phone. The blond’s leg was thrown haphazardly over George’s, one arm over the smaller’s waist and the other supporting his head.  </p><p>Christ, why did the universe do this to him?</p><p>In a last ditch attempt to seem like everything was very, very normal, he slowly removed himself from around George piece by piece. They both knew they were cuddling, but George did not need to know that Clay knew. Maybe if he played this bit off like he was still asleep while moving, he wouldn’t have to face any of George’s questions. It could kill him. </p><p>Released from Clay’s grasp, George sat up with a stretch and a yawn to start his day. Clay screwed his eyes shut, trying to calm his racing heart and mind. There was absolutely no way in his mind he could see himself surviving all four days in these conditions. Something had to give, either his feelings needed to go or he needed a new room. </p><p>He waited several minutes, listening to the steadily increasing traffic outside of his window. He’d had his entire schedule in Scotland laid out for him on the plane ride. There was no rush to get up, really; he didn’t have anywhere to be until three, when a scheduled tour of Holyrood Castle would take him, George, and several civilians around. The pair would be incognito, of course, moving along with crowds of mostly American tourists. Which would mean another day of getting to wear real, normal clothes. </p><p>And getting to see George in them.</p><p>No. Stop it. </p><p>Clay yawned, “sleepily” opening his eyes like the scare this morning had left him more awake than two redbulls. He rolled over, spotting George dressing immediately. His eyes widened in surprise— the other was wearing only a white dress shirt, blue boxers on full show. Quickly, he flopped back over, trying to reason himself out of suffocating himself in this very bed. </p><p>“Good morning, Clay.”</p><p>Fuck, fuck, fuck. This was certainly not okay. </p><p>“G-good morning, George.” Clay mentally cursed himself out for stuttering, hoping that George took no notice. </p><p>“Are you doing okay?”</p><p>“I- I don’t know w-what you mean? I’m fine, obviously.” Clay picked up his phone off the side table, looking at everything in his power to keep him distracted. </p><p>“Well, you got a bloody nose and I must have fallen asleep before you came back, so I was making sure.”</p><p>Right. That.</p><p>“I’m fine! Must have been an elevation thing or something.”</p><p>“We didn’t change elevation all that much?”</p><p>“Or something!” Clay raised his voice, panic closing in. </p><p>George didn’t dignify his outburst with a response. He was being childish and dodgy, but the entire thing was new to him. Sure, Clay has had partners in the past, more than one one-night stands, and drunken make out sessions, but this was completely uncharted territory. He’d never dealt with a crush so intense before.</p><p>
  <em>Nick, we have a problem.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So, I may have accidentally cuddled George in the night?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh, that’s cool. Good job.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nick, that’s not cool. He knows.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>RIP dude. As much as I love you, I got an essay to write.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nick.</em>
</p><p>Clay waited several minutes with no response. Nick had left him on delivered, that son of a bitch. Clay swore out loud, slamming his phone down on the table. George didn’t even look up, busy typing on his own phone, standing in the middle of the room without a care in the world. His eyebrows turned in concentration, a hint of white teeth escaping from the bottom lip he bit. Clay was completely and utterly screwed. </p><p>Figuring he was only delaying the inevitable, Clay sat up, shaking his hair out, which stood up in every direction imaginable. He really should have accepted the haircut offer, but it was too late now. George had already laid clothes out for him, much to Clay’s miserable fashion sense’s delight. He took the jeans and polo into the bathroom, not wanting to cause another scene. </p><p>When he came back out, clothes on and teeth brushed, George was standing by the door, swinging a pair of keys. Clay didn’t even know the Duke knew how to drive. He looked good in the white tee-shirt and green jacket (which, as Clay was told, was one of the colors affected by his color blindness), jeans straining tight against his legs.</p><p>“Are you ready to face the public? I thought we could go for breakfast.”</p><p>“Sure. Alright.”</p><p>Clay was, again, completely screwed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Howdy! Thank you so much for reading this chapter of American Royalty. Questions and comments are always appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11 - Castles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay and George take a tour of the castle, and end up getting a little closer than any of them are ready for.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Breakfast was uneventful, much to Clay’s benefit. The pair went to some random bristo down some random cobblestone street. It wasn’t raining, which was much more exciting than it really should have been, and eating (in Clay’s case) the biggest crêpe he had ever seen while watching the people on the street pass. Scottish people, as it turned out, looked miserable. Must be all of the rain.</p>
<p>“Do you see that road down there? We drove through it.” George pointed to a street at the end of the lane. Clay craned his neck to see through the window, nodding.</p>
<p>“That’s part of the Royal Mile, technically known as High Street. You might take it when you’re King, did you know?”</p>
<p>Clay shook his head. The image of him in some fancy limo rumbling down the streets wasn’t exactly exciting. He wasn’t self conscious, instead thinking that he was decently attractive,  but the idea of everyone on the street looking at him seemed like a personal hell. </p>
<p>“Does it ever get.. I don’t know.. weird to be looked at, all the time?”</p>
<p>George took a minute to think, chewing thoughtfully at his eggs. A lady with a very bright scarf  and several shopping bags walked past the window, causing Clay to draw back. </p>
<p>“Not really, but I was born this way, so you just grow up to find that normal. I think it would be weird if I knew anything else, yeah.” </p>
<p>Clay made a noncommittal noise, chewing lightly on his fork, meal long-since gone. You can take the boy out of Florida, but you can’t take the Florida out of the boy. Scrafing down meals was just how he operated. </p>
<p>“Are we going to just Holyrood Palace? Because I saw like, ninety things I want to look at.”</p>
<p>“Of course not, that’s why I booked our trip for so long. We won’t hit everything, but it’ll still be here the next time you come.”</p>
<p>Clay frowned, pouting a little. </p>
<p>“The next time I come? Will you not be here?” </p>
<p>“Clay, my job is to make sure that you are ready to take on royal life. Once I’m done, I have to get back to my own stuff. So yes, you’ll be by yourself.”</p>
<p>“That’s not fair. I don’t want you to go. Can I not order you to stay with me?” </p>
<p>George sighed, shaking his head. The waitress came by, dropping a bill on the table. The bluntness of waiters in the U.K. weirded him out, but you didn’t really have to be nice when pretty much your entire wage wasn’t centered around tips. </p>
<p>“Clay, it’s not like we’re never going to see each other again. I promise that we’ll come back to Scotland together at some point. Now, are you ready to get this started? The tour begins in half an hour, and I want to find somewhere decent to park.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The palace was less grand than Buckingham, but definitely fit Clay’s idea of a medieval castle more. He and about thirty other excited Americans were shuffled down hallways and in and out of chambers, while George hung back and whispered more practical information. While the guide droned on about the small historically significant event that happened in this one specific sitting room, George was telling Clay about the chair in the corner where the King liked to take his tea and read the newspaper. While he pointed out a painting hanging high above the mantle of a fireplace, George was telling him that the Queen usually sat here on Wednesday evenings to work, and that disturbing her was a lethal mistake. </p>
<p>“So you just cut his hair? And no one caught you?”</p>
<p>Clay’s face was screwed up, trying not to laugh as his companion recalled a story from his childhood, where he and his sister had cut the hair of some sleeping foriegn dignitary in the drawing room. His sister was away at some college in the U.S, continuing her education, seeing that she was far removed from the title, stolen from her by her son. It still bothered Clay, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. </p>
<p>“Yeah, but our nanny found us and made us apologise. We’re just lucky he decided to be nice, or we could have caused an international accident.” Clay snorted, causing half of the tour to look back at them. The taller blushed, ducking his head into George’s shoulder, which was shaking in silent laughter. Clay cleared his throat, resting his head against George’s shoulder as they walked. </p>
<p>“Was it weird to be raised by a nanny and not your parents?”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so, it’s not much different than you being raised by school teachers, except these teachers also tuck you in at night and are the only people you see for days at a time.”</p>
<p>Clay imagined the faces of his various elementary teachers, shuddering. He never, ever wanted to be raised by his second grade teacher, Mrs. Smith. She had forced him to do math until he bawled, which promptly pissed his mother off. After that incident, he changed schools. </p>
<p>“I’m not going to do that to my kids. I couldn’t.”</p>
<p>“Sometimes you don’t have a choice, and considering your station, you really don’t have one. And it’s certainly more stable than dragging a kid across the world for various engagements. At least with a nanny they have a stable home and life before they’re thrown into the fray.” </p>
<p>Clay nodded against George’s shoulder, tuning back in to listen to the monotone guide lecture about the bedroom they stood in, dropping names that Clay vaguely remembered from the books he’d been forced to read when he was young. Mary, Queen of Scots? It rang a bell, faintly, in a few towns over. He probably needed to pick up a history book at some point, to avoid offending anyone. Also he was pretty sure you needed a stable grasp on British history to be the King. Probably. </p>
<p>“George? I’m hungry. And tired. Can we go?”</p>
<p>“You woke up three hours ago, and ate an hour and a half before now. And we still have several more stops for today alone. Can you not tough it out?” Clay rolled his eyes, picking up his head and pouting. </p>
<p>“Fine, can we at least get a snack after we’re done with this tour? I’m literally going to starve to death.”</p>
<p>“I doubt you’re ‘literally going to starve to death’, but sure. You’ll get a snack.”</p>
<p>“Cool, I’ll get on my knees.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Nothing.” Clay’s face flushed again at the joke he had tried (and failed) to make. “Nothing, I was joking.” What in the hell had he been thinking? There was absolutely no thought process behind that, obviously. George’s face retained an awkward look, interested more in the crown molding on the ceiling. Why, why had he not kept his mouth shut? Now George probably thought he was weird.</p>
<p>“See, I knew you were a bottom.”</p>
<p>Clay blinked, trying to get a grasp of the situation at hand. George didn’t think he was weird! In fact, he had joked back! All at once, something dawned on him. </p>
<p>“Hold on now. I am not a bottom!”</p>
<p>George raised one perfect eyebrow at him, not in a confused way, but a challenging way. The rest of the group was moving on, and the two trailed far behind, keeping their distance. Soon, the two would be completely out of eyesight. Alone in the empty corridor. Something about it felt more intimate than even the small bed they had shared. George’s honeyed eyes bore holes in his own green ones, daring and smug. Clay’s heart raced, their chests so close he was certain George could feel it. </p>
<p>“Are you alright, Prince Clay?”</p>
<p>Clay could barely hear him over his own heart, more focused on the way the shorter’s lips moved then the actual syllables escaping from them. They were so perfect, in his eyes, so perfectly kissable. Damn royal genes making the one man assigned to him so damn hot. Someone did this on purpose, a cruel joke to make him suffer even more than Clay already was. </p>
<p>“I- uh-” He sputtered, trying to get a grip on the butterflies that punched holes in his stomach wall. “Y-yeah. I’m fine. Are you fine? You’re really hot- no- um- you look really hot- wait-”</p>
<p>“Relax, your Highness. My temperature is none of your concern. We should get going though, the tour left us behind. You wouldn’t want to miss the riveting story behind the rugs.”</p>
<p>“Rugs. Right.” Clay swallowed down the lump that was choking him out, accepting George’s elbow. The pair marched down the red-carpeted hallway, muffled footsteps echoing down the halls. Clay took his chances, briefly glancing at George, He hoped that he hadn’t somehow screwed up their entire relationship, or made it awkward. But, at the same time, George had played right back. What did that even mean? Did George also have feelings? Was he not straight? </p>
<p>Questions swirled in his head, making it impossible to listen to the tour guide.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey! Thank you for reading this chapter of American Royalty. Comments and questions are always appreciated.<br/>Because of some changes in story direction, I’m going to have to put a slight TW on the next chapter. Nothing too big, but there will be mentions of pills and family death. Thanks for understanding.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12 - Mistrust</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>JUST TO PREFACE: There is a slight TW for pills in this chapter. It’s near the very end. <br/>Clay really screws up, and finds out quite a bit of information about George. <br/>Also, I do not believe that George has ever said his dad’s name, so I just made one up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay did in fact get his snack, in terms of a raspberry pastry from some random café, eaten on a bench in the George Square Gardens. Clay found the name hilariously ironic (and chose it accordingly), much to George’s dismay. He’d suggested heavily to go to Arthur’s Seat (but it looked like a lot of climbing, and there were probably a lot of people, Clay countered). George nursed a cup of coffee, steam curling off the top and drifting towards Clay. Gray clouds rolled across the sky, creating a freezing breeze. Clay was miserable. </p>
<p>“Hey, Clay? I’ll be back soon.” George tapped at his phone before walking deeper into the park, speaking quietly into the receiver. He was always on his phone, it seemed. There was no way people needed him that much. </p>
<p>Clay, bored and alone, pulled out his phone, a thought in mind. The Google homepage stared back at him, the cursor blinking, daring him to put thoughts into words. Googling George would be an invasion of privacy, sure, but there was no way he’d be able to confront George at this point in their semi-stable relationship. Sighing, his fingers swiped across the screen. </p>
<p>George Davidson. </p>
<p>Pages upon pages of random Facebook and Twitter links came up. Nothing really stood out to him. Of course, he’d have to be more specific. There must be tons and tons of George Davidson’s out there.</p>
<p>George Davidson Duke. </p>
<p>A hit. Article after article popped up, displaying various information about the boy and his family. Headlines caught his attention, over and over again. </p>
<p>Manchester Dukedom Passes to Youngest.</p>
<p>The Life and Times of Thomas Davidson.</p>
<p>12-year-old Becomes the New Duke of Manchester.</p>
<p>Clay’s eyes widened as he frantically read word after word. George was rapidly approaching, seemingly done with the phone call. Clay hurriedly exited out of Google, clearing his history as he went. It wasn’t like George would have gone through his phone, but something about the idea of keeping this information anywhere on his phone felt dirty and dishonest. </p>
<p>“I scheduled a private tour of St. Giles’ Cathedral. If we’re quick-”</p>
<p>“What happened to your dad?”</p>
<p>George visibly took a step back, confused, angry, and most of all, shocked. His phone was loose in his grasp, threatening to fall on the soft grass. </p>
<p>“I- what?”</p>
<p>“Well I just-” Clay held up his phone, tapping on the dark screen. “I was just curious and I wasn’t thinking, I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”</p>
<p>George’s face turned as hard as the stone bench. Anger flashed in his dark eyes, fading to a carefully crafted void of emotions that he hadn’t seen since their first meeting. It hurt Clay badly, but he had no room to be the victim. He’d fucked up.</p>
<p>“You’re right, I don’t have to answer. We’re going back to the hotel. Let’s go.” </p>
<p>George didn’t even wait for Clay to stand up before marching back into the car. The complete dismissal cut through his bones worse than any icy wind, freezing him for an eternity. A deep chill settled in his heart, making him feel like he’d never be warm again. He had completely and utterly screwed up whatever small chance of a relationship had been forming. There was nothing he could do but watch George walk away, every step a nail in the closing door. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay was alone in the hotel room. George had dropped him off, gave him the keys, and sped off in the little black Mercedes to do god-knows-what. He laid down on the bed, covers pulled tight over his body. The blankets even smelled like George.</p>
<p>Several missed calls and texts from Nick blinked on his phone, but he couldn’t be bothered to answer a single one. The only text that mattered was the seven words George had sent him. Somehow, some way, George had gotten his number. </p>
<p>
  <em>Dinner. Tonight at 5. Don’t be late.</em>
</p>
<p>Even through the phone Clay could feel the presence of the other boy, the cadence of his speech, the warmth behind the big brown eyes that seemed both child-like and mature simultaneously. The only thing he could imagine were those precious eyes, hard with anger. It tore his entire heart out, stomped on it, and then tore it in half.</p>
<p>It was a half hour after four, and even despite the warning to not be late, Clay still could not find the motivation to get up. He was still in his clothes from earlier in the day, cuddled deep into the covers. It had started to rain again, which dragged his mood farther into the pits. Clay closed his eyes. Just for a moment. </p>
<p>Something was shaking his body, dragging a small moan out of him. Whoever— or whatever— it was sucked in their breath. </p>
<p>“Clay?” </p>
<p>“Hmm?” Clay hummed, turning over to bury his face deeper into the pillow. He couldn’t, for the life of him, remember falling asleep. Something tugged at his mind, urging him to stand, as there was something to do that he couldn’t remember. </p>
<p>“Your Highness.” George’s sharp voice cut through the fog of sleepiness, chilling him to the core. Of course. He had fallen asleep and missed dinner, probably. </p>
<p>Clay rolled over, glossy eyes stinging from the tears he had unwillingly let loose. George looked pressed and polished as ever, a suit replacing the green jacket from earlier. His cheeks and nose were flushed pink, offsetting the natural paleness of his skin. Clay yawned lightly. </p>
<p>“George?”</p>
<p>“What happened to dinner?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“Not about the dinner.”</p>
<p>“I know, Clay.” </p>
<p>They both sighed, eyes sliding across the room in different directions. It was odd, for Clay, to be looking up at George instead of the other way around. Secretly, George felt the same. </p>
<p>“So do you want to sit, or something?”</p>
<p>“No, I want dinner, and you’re,” George pulled up his wrist, checking the time on his watch. “Two and a half hours late.” </p>
<p>Clay nodded, sliding to get out of bed before remembering something, cheeks going pink.</p>
<p>“Hey, George?”</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“You’re in my way, and, um, I’m only in boxers.”</p>
<p>George took a step back, leaning against the window effortlessly. The lights of Edinburgh reflected off his eyes and high cheekbones, illuminating him like an angel. It was both captivating and compelling. </p>
<p>“Still wearing only boxers.”</p>
<p>“And? You’ve seen mine. Relax.”</p>
<p>“Right.” He breathed. There was no reason to be scared, they were just two bros in a hotel room. George was right, after all, he’d seen him in boxers. There was zero problem here. Yet he was still nervous, kicking down the fluttering butterflies that made their way from the pits of his stomach to his throat. </p>
<p>Clay stood up, stretching lightly, his shirt riding up over his stomach. There— a quick  glance. Clay was certain he saw it. There was a possibility he was looking way too far into everything, but at the same time, he was certain George had looked. He was overthinking it, and George was probably still angry about earlier, but-</p>
<p>This crush was starting to get to his head. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dinner was surprisingly nice, in Clay’s opinion. Despite the glaring difference between the upper class nature of the restaurant and Clay’s hoodie, everything seemed peaceful. George was amicable, seemingly haven forgotten about their argument from earlier. Neither of them were about to approach the subject. </p>
<p>Nor were they about to approach it as they danced around each other, getting ready for the night. The spring season brought in a lot of tourists, apparently, which had made it hard for them to find a second hotel room. Clay wasn’t exactly complaining, finding comfort in the fact that they would have to be stuck with each other no matter what. </p>
<p>“Clay.” George stuck his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, the white foam of toothpaste slightly spilling out of the corners of his mouth. Clay looked up, humming. </p>
<p>“Can you pass me my razor?” His voice was muffled and nasally, due to the mouthful of toothpaste. “It should be in the black bag.” </p>
<p>Clay gave him a thumbs up, watching as he ducked his head back into the bathroom. With a sigh and a huff, he dragged his feet to the bag. The razor was easy enough to find, tucked neatly into the cover. As he was closing it, a flash of orange caught his attention. He felt guilty immediately, there was already a rift between the two, and snooping through his stuff wasn’t exactly going to help. </p>
<p>But, he was curious.</p>
<p>Trembling fingers reached farther into the bag, cool plastic brushing against them. Slowly and carefully, like holding a bomb, he raised the tub out of the bag, eyes studying the label as fast as they could, committing the words to memory. </p>
<p>“Clay?” </p>
<p>“Yeah?” He dropped the pills, small cases rattling. George had graciously neglected to poke his head out of the bathroom. </p>
<p>“Did you find it?”</p>
<p>“Yep. Give me a second.” </p>
<p>Clay’s heart hammered in his chest.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>HOLY SHIT YA’LL. OVER 1000 reads. I have literally no words to describe how incredibly grateful I am. All of the support encourages me to write more. <br/>As always, thank you for reading. Questions and comments are always appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13 - Midnight Dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>We’re cuddling boisss! Finally. That’s all I gotta say.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They sat near the window of a random fish and chips shop. Sunlight bounced off of the table, reflecting nicely on Clay’s mostly blond hair and George’s honeyed eyes. It was the last day of their mini vacation, all awkwardness mostly forgotten. Well, save for the bubbling questions that punctured Clay’s heart. </p>
<p>“What if I just,” Clay paused, gesturing with the “chip” in his hand. “Abdicate?” </p>
<p>George coughed, choking on the food before him. Clay awkwardly reached over to pat his back, but the other pushed him away. </p>
<p>“You can’t— well, you won’t. You will not fuck this whole thing up. Hundreds of people have been working their asses off to make you work. Do you know how hard it was to keep the Duchess' pregnancy a secret? How hard it was to settle you both down? The countless hours the crown has put into fending off people who are way more qualified for this position? The issue of military service, and titles. I swear on my life if you abdicate I will personally hunt you down.” George’s face was flushed with anger. Clay raised an eyebrow at his speech.</p>
<p>“Don’t you think that was a little dramatic for a fish and french fries shop?”</p>
<p>“Chips. Fish and chips.”</p>
<p>“French fries.”</p>
<p>“Absolutely not.” </p>
<p>“Fine, but,” Clay looked around, trying to grab his target before pointing at it. “Garbage can.”</p>
<p>“Bin.”</p>
<p>“Garbage can.” </p>
<p>“Garbage can.” George called back, in a horrific mock-American accent. Clay let out a snort and a wheeze, which sounded borderline painful for onlookers, yet familiarly comfortable to those who knew him best. </p>
<p>It was finally comfortable again, yet Clay felt like he was walking on eggshells. One wrong step could set them back to square one, and he wasn’t ready to start over. The complete and utter disregard of their first meeting could kill him. </p>
<p>“Clay, you’re distracting me. Seriously, do not abdicate. I promise everything will get better.” With his concluding statement, George shoved the taller’s elbows off the table. “Well, it’ll get better once you learn manners.” </p>
<p>“Did you not get the message? Elbows on the table are in now. So you’re the one in the wrong.” </p>
<p>George raised his eyebrow, then ducked his head and took a bite, trying to hide the wide smile forming. Clay, for his credit, was quite oblivious to the brunet’s feelings. </p>
<p>They sat in silence once more, both stuck in their own heads for separate reasons. In Clay’s case, it was the sunniest day he’d seen since coming to the U.K., and would be damned to miss a single moment of it. </p>
<p>“Hey, Clay?”</p>
<p>“Hm?”</p>
<p>“You’re going to meet suiters. Tomorrow. I figured I should tell you.” </p>
<p>“What? Already? Do I not need to be introduced, or whatever?”</p>
<p>“Well, in a formal sense, yes. At a ball in your honor. But everyone already knows, you’re just lucky we’ve kept the journalists at bay for now. Everyone wants a piece of you. It might help your appearance to show up with a respectable lady. Or so the crown thinks.” </p>
<p>“And what do you think?” Clay cocked his head to the side, trying to catch George’s gaze, which was steady on the empty plate before him.</p>
<p>“I don’t think anything. I’m not allowed to have an opinion.”</p>
<p>“George. Come on now.” </p>
<p>“Fine. I think you should have some time to settle before finding a life partner. The King and Queen aren’t dying anytime soon, so there really shouldn’t be any rush. There’s no “helping your image” now, the people will love you considering you lived just like them. And I don’t think you’re ready.” </p>
<p>Clay nodded, playing idly with the crumbs on his plate. He really did not feel like talking to a bunch of ladies, deciding which would make a suitable wife. If he wanted that, he’d go on the Bachelor.</p>
<p>“Will there be any.. guys there?”</p>
<p>“Huh? Sure. I’ll be there. I’m your advisor, after all.”</p>
<p>“Right. Thank you.” Clay rolled his eyes discreetly, slightly annoyed at George’s obliviousness. If anything, the smaller boy was more appealing then— no, knock it off. </p>
<p>“A ball, you say? In my honor? I don’t know how to do your fancy dancing.”</p>
<p>“First of all, yes. Second, it’s not “fancy dancing”, it’s the waltz. Third, I’ll teach you.” </p>
<p>“You’ll teach me? Like, me and you? Dancing?”</p>
<p>“Yes?” George squinted at him, tilting his head. “Is that a problem?” </p>
<p>“Not at all. I just thought you said I was a bottom, yet you’ll be following my lead.” </p>
<p>George sputtered, resigning to throwing a napkin at Clay’s face. It fluttered pitifully and fell in the center of the table, as napkins often do. </p>
<p>“Hey now! Table manners! C’mon George, you know better.”</p>
<p>“You’re so lucky you’re the crown prince, or I would have strangled you by now.” George’s voice dropped threateningly low, trying to intimidate Clay. It did not work, evident by Clay doubling over in laughter. </p>
<p>“You would not,” Clay paused, trying to catch his breath. “You love me. Don’t deny it.” </p>
<p>“Whatever.”</p>
<p>“Come on, say it! You love me!”</p>
<p>“Clay. Please shut up. I can and will call someone to get you.” </p>
<p>“Fine. But only because I like the sun.” </p>
<p>“You know, I think you’ll enjoy going to Australia. I hear it’s lovely in the spring, very sunny. And it just so happens that the man who will be scheduling all of your tours before I decide you’re ready knows you like the sun.”</p>
<p>“Only if you come with me. You’re so pale, try being in the sun sometime?”</p>
<p>“Of course, your Highness.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was still sunny, to Clay’s excitement, when they touched back down in London. The cameras were there to greet them, clicking and flashing as Clay straightened his back and tie, having (once again) changed on the plane. He was getting quite proficient at it. </p>
<p>He was ushered back into a limo, waving politely at the reporters as he went. George had given him a crash course on how to deal with the press while they stood body to body, changing. There were definitely times when Clay zoned out to take in.. other things. </p>
<p>“You’re getting good at that.” George commented, sliding in beside him. His face was flushed from the accident involving an airline hostess while he was trying to disembark. Who knew Dukes could be so awkward.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m just a natural.”</p>
<p>“Hush. I said getting. You’re nowhere near as perfect as me.” </p>
<p>“Rude. I wasn’t the one who body checked that poor girl. You made her sign a NDA and everything.” </p>
<p>“Oh my god. I was distracted, okay?” George huffed and looked out the window, watching the London scenery go by. </p>
<p>“Distracted by what?”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>“I think it does, because I’m pretty sure I’m your only friend.” </p>
<p>“First of all, I think it’s cute you think we’re friends. Second, I have other friends.”</p>
<p>“I’m graciously ignoring your first comment. If you have other friends, where are they?”</p>
<p>“Babysitting you is a full time job, so I haven’t seen them in a bit. I promise you’ll meet soon.” </p>
<p>“See,” Clay paused, stuffing one of the complimentary chocolates in his face. “You keep saying “soon” but there’s only so much time in a day. And I need my beauty sleep.” </p>
<p>“Don’t worry, your Highness. I’ve got your schedule under control, even when you destroy it with your whims. And you’re right.” George turned to look the other up and down. Clay’s cheeks tingled slightly, not used to the sudden attention by the other in such a small space. “You do need your beauty sleep.” </p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay was alone in his hotel room, the one he was most used to. Something about the large space unnerved him, as did the stretch of cold bed beside him. He wanted George there, surely. Not because he was attached, or anything, but because he had gotten used to having the other boy beside him. That had to be it.</p>
<p>Clay crawled out of bed, shaking out his pyjama pants, which had ridden up as he tossed and turned. George had left him a key to his room, for emergency purposes. This was an emergency though, Clay needed to sleep. </p>
<p>He closed George’s door gently behind him, trying to not wake the sleeping boy. The room was dark and chilly, a complete mirror of the room he had just left. George was curled up on the left side, closest to the door, breathing lightly. </p>
<p>
  <em>Just get in, and then wake up early before he does. It’ll be fine.</em>
</p>
<p>Clay slipped under the white covers, scooting closer to George. The heat from the other warmed his core, and the mattress seemed just perfect. A contented sigh ghosted his lips.</p>
<p>“Clay..?” George mumbled sleepily. Clay froze in his tracks, not daring to say anything. </p>
<p>“Clay, what in the world are you doing?”</p>
<p>“I- um- couldn’t sleep.” </p>
<p>“Is that so?” The other was definitely half asleep. Clay could book it now, pretending like the whole interaction was a dream or something. </p>
<p>“Come here.” George opened his arms, eyes closed. Clay hesitated, not quite sure if this could be considered taking advantage of George’s sleeping state.</p>
<p>But they’d cuddled before, and it was fine, right? </p>
<p>Clay carefully placed himself in George’s arms, allowing his body to relax. The other tightened his grip on instinct, bringing the two even closer, warm breath hitting on another’s face. </p>
<p>Clay could get used to this.</p>
<p>And George could, too.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank ya’ll so much for reading. As always, comments and questions are always appreciated. I do see them all.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14 - Meetings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clay meets his suitors. He is... unimpressed.. and realizes just how hard is it to be a royal.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay was unequivocally bored. They’d made him dress up in a fancy suit, adorned with metals he hadn’t earned, and paraded him around the ballroom. Girl after girl spoke to him, and girl after girl left him hopelessly disappointed. He felt ridiculous, and George laughing at him silently from the corner whenever he failed to make a connection was not helping. </p>
<p>“This is stupid.” He whispered to George, finding just enough time to sneak off. “All of these people are boring people pleasers. And the snacks aren’t even that good.”</p>
<p>“Have patience, your Highness. This is only the first meeting.” George’s eyes slid across the gathering, finding what he was looking for and pointing at it. “What about her? You seemed to like her.”</p>
<p>“Lady Emily Rothschild from-"</p>
<p> “I know who she is, your Highness.”</p>
<p> “Right. I don’t know, she’s nice.”</p>
<p>“But?”</p>
<p>“But she’s not “the one” or whatever.” </p>
<p>“You never know.” George sighed, turning his foot slightly to face Clay. “Let me tell you a secret; people like us rarely marry for love."</p>
<p>“That’s stupid.”</p>
<p>“I know. Go on, your Highness. The ladies are waiting for you.” </p>
<p>Clay reluctantly moved away, savoring every last bit of warmth he could get from George’s side. The girls were dreadfully dull in nature. At least with George he could talk and joke. </p>
<p>“Your Highness!” A high pitched voice called. Clay resisted the urge to shudder, mentally preparing himself. </p>
<p>“Have you tried these crab cakes, your Highness? I imagine they remind you of home.” Clay had tried the crab cakes. They didn’t remind him of home at all.</p>
<p>“Yes, they do! We had them all the time!” Clay forced a smile. He and his mother would rather die before having crab cakes. They both hated seafood. He examined the girl in front of him, trying to remember who, exactly, she was. Lila? Lia? Leana? Who knows. </p>
<p>“Oh, you’re so funny, Prince Clay.” Clay shut his eyes to avoid rolling them. He hadn’t even made a joke. Of course, once he started talking to one, the others all flocked to his side. </p>
<p>“I hear Florida is really beautiful!”</p>
<p>“You should take a tour of Bath, sometime.” </p>
<p>“Have you seen much of London, your Highness?” </p>
<p>All of the questions were overwhelming, creating a whirlwind of unpleasantness. His heart yearned for George, who stood idly by, just watching him get mauled by twelve high-bred girls. </p>
<p>“As much as I appreciate every single one of you, I must go.” Clay shook someone’s hand off his shoulder, and then another one clenched onto his forearm. He was very obviously getting nowhere with this gathering. </p>
<p>The girls whined and made excuses as Clay stormed off. He barely heard them, instead being laser focused on the brown eyes which watched him with great interest. </p>
<p>“Your Highness?”</p>
<p>“George, we’re leaving.” </p>
<p>George said nothing, opting to follow Clay’s path silently. After all, it was only his job to clean up his mess and prevent new ones, not keep him in a social situation he wasn’t comfortable with. </p>
<p>“This is all hopeless!”</p>
<p> “What is, your Highness?”</p>
<p>“Please stop that, we’re in private now. The whole prince thing is absolutely hopeless. How can I do balls and things if I can’t even handle twelve people!” </p>
<p>“I’m sure you’ll get used to it.”</p>
<p>Clay leaned against the wall, head thrown back and throat exposed. George swallowed, trying to find the right words to mentally describe Clay. </p>
<p>“You always say that, but it’s not getting any better.”</p>
<p>“You’re not giving it time, Clay.”</p>
<p>“I don’t have time! My announcement ball is at the end of April! We’re halfway through March! Time is the only thing I don’t have!” </p>
<p>“Overthinking isn’t going to help.”</p>
<p>Clay looked over at the other, who was standing rod-straight with his head bowed, hair blanketing his expression. Clay’s eyes were full of desperation. </p>
<p>“I know.” </p>
<p>“And clinging to me all the time is not going to help.”</p>
<p>“I know.” </p>
<p>“So what are we going to do about this?”</p>
<p>“Not a single thing.”</p>
<p>“Clay-" George glanced up at him, concerned. “You can’t admit there’s a problem and then just say “no.” That’s not how it works.”</p>
<p>“You’re the only person I can stand in this godforsaken place. I’m half thinking I should marry you instead.” </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Platonically, of course.”</p>
<p>Clay wasn’t thinking. His internal monologue was more or less a bunch of swearing and screaming, which drowned out any rational thoughts. He barely registered what he was saying anymore, content in his own head. He barely even registered George’s footsteps, or the arms that wrapped around his torso, or the hot breath on his neck. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay rubbed his eyes, sitting up lightly. Somehow he’d gotten back to his own room, and one long nap later, was feeling much better than he had in the afternoon. It was dark outside, and cold. At some point he’d get used to the cold, right? </p>
<p>“Clay?”</p>
<p>Clay whipped his head around, gaze settling on one pyjamaed George. He was perched nicely on the chair, reading a book. Thick glasses adorned his face, framing the long eyelashes which just so happened to be batting at him. </p>
<p>“Oh. It’s just you.”</p>
<p>“Don’t sound so disappointed.”</p>
<p>“I’m not.”</p>
<p>George sighed, discarding the book on the side table and sliding his hand through his hair. Much to Clay’s relief (and slight disappointment), George was clothed in actual pajamas.</p>
<p>“How do you feel?”</p>
<p>“Better, I think. I’m sorry for freaking out.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be. I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now.” </p>
<p>The air was comfortable. Clay had no idea how long he’d been asleep, or how long George had been sitting there, watching him. Did he snore? No one had ever said anything about it. He prayed to anyone who was listening that he didn’t snore. Embarrassing. </p>
<p>“Is it okay if I-“ George gestured to the bed. Clay nodded, laying back down, arms folded neatly above his head. The other sat on the edge, glancing at the door like it was going to explode at any minute. </p>
<p>“You can lay down, if you want?”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid if I lay down, I’ll fall asleep.”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing wrong with that. We’ve done it before. Of course, the bed’s not only for sleeping-"</p>
<p>“Clay!” George interrupted, voice raising by about two octaves. Clay wheezed, glad to be back in the rhythm he was used to. </p>
<p>“I’m kidding. Lay down, George. Maybe you’ll relax for once. And leave your phone by the door, it just disturbs your sleep.” </p>
<p>George obediently did as Clay asked, standing by the door to send off one more message before dropping it next to the coffee maker and kettle. Carefully, like approaching a bomb, the shorter creeped across the room to sit back down on the bed, this time flush to the headboard. </p>
<p>“That’s not laying down.”</p>
<p>“I never said I was going to.” </p>
<p>Clay rolled his eyes, sitting up so he could be on level ground with the other. George looked exceedingly beautiful in the lamp light. </p>
<p>“You look nice.”</p>
<p>George hummed, turning his head to look at Clay. It was now or never, as far as the taller was concerned. </p>
<p>“I just mean.. you look nice, but uncomfortable. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in your boxers?”</p>
<p>“I- probably. But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” </p>
<p>“George, you literally couldn’t do that. I’m as cool as a cucumber.” </p>
<p>“Your mum is a cucumber.” </p>
<p>Clay laughed, filling the whole room with his voice. <em>Now or never.</em></p>
<p>“George?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Do you like guys?”</p>
<p>George’s whole face flushed as he leaned back in surprise, eyes widening. He really wanted to say yes, to see where the conversation was going. </p>
<p>“What- Clay! You can’t just ask someone that!” </p>
<p>“But do you?”</p>
<p>“I’m not answering you.”</p>
<p>“Please? For me?”</p>
<p>George resisted the urge to look over, knowing the puppy dog eyes that adorned Clay’s face. </p>
<p>“Fine. Yes. But the family-" George was cut off by a soft mouth attaching to his. </p>
<p>Clay melted. George was just as soft and gentle as he had imagined. He readjusted to get a better angle, not once letting his mouth stray. Hands rested on the headboard, high above George’s head, and legs pinning the other’s on both sides. Faintly, he recalled George putting his hands on his waist. </p>
<p>Clay pulled away, resting his forehead on George’s. The brunet whined, annoyed at the lack of contact.</p>
<p>“How is that,” he breathed. “For a bottom?”</p>
<p>“Just shut up.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank ya'll so much for reading! Please comment, I'm lonely.<br/>So we got the kiss, huh? How exciting.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15 - Flowers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ho ho! Our favorite boys get bored and go check out the gardens.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You’re too late for the Cheltenham Festival.” George flipped through a newspaper, feet up on the adjacent coffee table. Clay laid sideways, resting his feet on George’s lap, staring hard at the second page of a random history book, that really just wasn’t making any sense. It was a sunny morning, and George had given them a small social “break,” for Clay’s mental benefit. </p>
<p>“Really? I don’t even know what that is.”</p>
<p>“You should, it’s a big event that you will be attending next year. Either way, our next big engagement will be the boat races. It’ll be mandatory. And considering you have yet to meet the Queen, extremely important.”</p>
<p>“Aren’t there like, boat races all the time? Why is this one special?”</p>
<p>“This one, Clay, is a historical event. Between Cambridge and Oxford. One of which,” George gave a pointed look. “You will be encouraged to attend.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t even graduated high school, calm down. I doubt I have the grades to get in anyway.” Clay tossed the book, giving up on the words that spun around the pages. Groaning, he slid his fingers through his hair. “And what if I don’t even want to go to college-”</p>
<p>“University.”</p>
<p>“Of course. What if I don’t even want to go to university?”</p>
<p>“Parliament has graciously offered to waver your military service, to not attend would just be spitting in their face. Just a little while, okay? You don’t have to go out and get a doctorate. And I’m sure either one of them will be honored to host the crown Prince” </p>
<p>“Fine. Boat races, then? How boring can that be?”</p>
<p>“Extremely. But you’ll be more engaged with social meetings than watching any of the rowing teams. Just clap politely when someone wins, then we can go.”</p>
<p>“Out of curiosity, how long will this take?”</p>
<p>“Two, three hours?”</p>
<p>“I hate you so much. Why’d you have to tell me that? I’m going to die.”</p>
<p>“And it’ll probably rain the whole time.”</p>
<p>“Why are you punishing me?”</p>
<p>Lazy, lighthearted smiles lit up both of their faces, illuminated by the morning light. Neither of them had bothered to get dressed, still lazing around. After several sessions of late-night escapades going back and forth between each other’s rooms, they mutually decided it would be better just to share one.</p>
<p>Not that Clay minded. </p>
<p>One thing he did mind though, was the kiss. An agreement was made, soon after, that they weren’t going to talk about it. For “safety” from the Crown. But Clay couldn’t stop replaying it in his mind, late at night, when the moonlight bounced so delicately off the other’s face. It was infuriating, yet intoxicating all the same. It drove Clay crazy to think about it, so for his own sanity, he shelved the whole thing entirely. </p>
<p>“So, when is this stupid race?”</p>
<p>“A week and a half from now.”</p>
<p>“Before the ball?”</p>
<p>“Neither can be rescheduled, so yes.” George tilted his head, flipping to the next page in the paper. Who, in this world, still read the newspaper? Clay was bored out of his mind. </p>
<p>“Ms. Rothschild will be there.”</p>
<p>“Great.”</p>
<p>“You sound less than enthused. I told you to give her a chance.”</p>
<p>“I don’t really want to, to be honest. She’s boring, I doubt there’s even an ounce of funny in you. A lot like yourself right now, George.”    </p>
<p>“Watch yourself. I bite back.”</p>
<p>“I’m counting on it.”</p>
<p>George raised his eyebrow, but continued scanning the paper. </p>
<p>“I know we’re on a break and all, but can we please do something? I’m going insane in here.”</p>
<p>“Read the book I brought you.” George didn’t even bother looking up. </p>
<p>“I can’t.” He whined, pulling at George’s arm. </p>
<p>“Clay, I know you know how to read. You’re not getting any pity points, nor am I going to read it for you.” </p>
<p>“George, I literally cannot read right now. It hurts my head. Lets go outside! It’s so nice!”</p>
<p>George groaned, rubbing his eyes and setting the paper aside. Clay’s heart fluttered, either out of excitement that he was getting his way, or something else. He smiled widely as George stood, stretching out his bare torso. </p>
<p>“If we are going out, you should probably get dressed.”</p>
<p>“I think I’d rather see you going down the streets of London in boxers, but whatever floats your boat.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay stretched his arms far above his head, basking in the light. Turns out, it was fairly easy to close down the entire Sunken Gardens at Kensington, for his Majesty's pleasure. The tulips and wildflowers were in full bloom, creating a dazzling display of vibrant color. This was the most homely anywhere had felt in his entire stay in the U.K. Walking past the pools and fountains on a sunny day, just himself and George, felt so.. right. Clay was convinced this is where he had belonged this entire time. </p>
<p>“This is beautiful, George. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”</p>
<p>“I didn’t clock you as a garden fan. Do you see those?” George took Clay’s hand, pointing to a group of pinkish flowers in the distance. The sudden warmth from his hand was enough to stave off the coldest of winds. “Those are wild cosmos. Beautiful, aren’t they? I hear they don’t need much water.”</p>
<p>“Are they your favorite?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Apparently they’re pink, but I don’t see it.”</p>
<p>“You’re colorblind George, you don’t get an opinion.”</p>
<p>The pair laughed— or wheezed, for accuracy— continuing the stroll around the gardens. George had hyped the place up on the way, and Clay had yet to see anything that didn’t exceed expectations. The Cradle Walk, the formal gardens (which despite being little more than a patch of grass were exceptionally tranquil, causing Clay to daydream about a picnic), and now the Sunken Gardens. </p>
<p>“When I live here, will I just.. have access to all this?”</p>
<p>“Of course. You have access to it now. All you have to do is ask.”</p>
<p>“George, I doubt I could point out where we are on a map. You’ve lived here your whole life. Take me on a tour, not the other way around. I wouldn’t dump you in Florida and expect you to know everything.”</p>
<p>“London is, dare I say it, one of the tourist capitals in the world. There’s hundreds of noteworthy places. Surely you’ve heard of at least one you want to go to?”</p>
<p>“The London Eye? Big Ben?”</p>
<p>“Something with historical, practical value, Clay.”</p>
<p>“I’m pretty sure the most famous clock tower in the world has historic value.”</p>
<p>George glared at him playfully, crossing his arms. It might have been the way the sunshine created honeypots out of his eyes, or the way it made him radiate with life, but something about it left Clay speechless. Perhaps it was the slight breeze which made his hair flutter over his face ever so slightly, or the tight, navy sweater, or something. Maybe even the perfectly grabbable collar on the stupid, white dress shirt. </p>
<p>“Clay? Are you okay? You zoned out for a minute.”</p>
<p>“Yeah? Sorry. Stop looking so good, and I wouldn’t stare.”</p>
<p>A small smile formed on George’s lips as he rolled his eyes, pushing the taller lightly. </p>
<p>“Right. Come on, we have a bunch more to see.”</p>
<p>The pair continued their stroll. The only thing, in Clay’s mind, that could make this any more perfect was if his mom and Nick were here to experience the gardens and pleasant, nonintrusive sunshine. </p>
<p>“You know, people get engaged here all the time.”</p>
<p>“Oh-” Clay coughed, choking on his own spit. “Do they?” His voice was strained in both trepidation and shock.</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah. Some couples in the court, even. I understand the appeal.” </p>
<p>“Very appealing.”</p>
<p>“I think I might, too. In the Cradle.”</p>
<p>“Do you have anyone in mind?”</p>
<p>“No, and if you ask again you’ll be just as bad as half of my council. If my mum didn’t insist on them, I’d fire them all and replace them with people who didn’t like me for my money.”</p>
<p>“If it helps, I don’t like you for your money?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” George giggles. “It does help.”</p>
<p>Clay tried hard to keep his fluttering heart in check. Where had that even come from? Why suggest it now, when they’re alone in a ridiculously pretty garden? Was George trying to give him a heart attack? He needed Nick’s help. </p>
<p>“Hey, do you think there’s any chance I could fly a friend out here? For moral support?” Clay crossed his fingers behind his back. The whole thing was way over his head. Nick was the most grounded person he knew. </p>
<p>“Possibly. I’d have to check. But your social calendar might not allow it for a while, and if it does, they’d have to be cleared by security, and then there’s the issue of board.”</p>
<p>“He can just have your room, considering how often you’re not in it.”</p>
<p>Clay celebrated his small victory. A maybe was better than a definite no. </p>
<p>
  <em>Hey Nick. How would you like to come to London?</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Heyo! Thanks a bunch for reading this Chapter of American Royalty. If you liked it, please leave a like and share— just kidding.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16- Boats</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It's a new chapter! Woo! Our favorite pair goes to the boat races, Dream gets emotional, and all that. Special guest appearances by Tubbo and Tommy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was pouring, when Clay and George arrived suited and exhausted to the River Thames. Mist engulfed the surroundings in a haze, filling Clay’s lungs with icy needles. The pair waved amicably at the roaring crowds, making their way to a series of tents set aside for the family. The blond’s hair was getting soggy, strands sticking to his face. George stopped him on their path, forcing Clay to shake hands with some random person. All he wanted was to get under the tent and dry off.</p>
<p>“This is miserable.” Clay whispered, holding onto the other’s suit jacket. A strand of blond hair stuck to his eyelashes. </p>
<p>“Come along, your Highness.” George’s smile was aggressively fake, easily picked up by Clay’s trained eyes. Every emotion that flashed, even briefly, across the Duke’s face could be easily counted by Clay. In social gatherings, he could sense the exact moment when George was ready for an escape. The only emotion he couldn’t quite figure out, was-</p>
<p>“Your Highness. Let’s go, before you catch a chill.” </p>
<p>They trampled through the rain-slick gravel, both running over grievances in their heads. Clay was distracting himself with his misery over the rain, rather than the upcoming meeting with the Queen. His grandmother. One of the most important people in the entire country. Who thought it was a good idea to let him talk? </p>
<p>“Are you ready to meet her?”</p>
<p>“Not at all.”</p>
<p>“Relax, just smile and nod. Be polite, back straight.” George elbowed Clay pointedly. “And try to not be offensive, or obscene? This is the Queen, after all, not just your grandmother.”</p>
<p>“You really don’t have to remind me. Will you please stay with me?”</p>
<p>“I told you I have other engagements. I’ll meet back up with you when I’m finished. You’re lucky they didn’t stick you out on one of those boats, though I was all for the idea. It would have been funny.”</p>
<p>“I think you’d be too busy checking out these muscles if I was out there.”</p>
<p>“Uh huh.” George rolled his eyes. “Try to keep the casual tone in check. I allow it, but not everyone else will. There are staunch enemies of you here. Please, try to be careful.”</p>
<p>“I will, I will. You’re acting like a mother.” </p>
<p>George refused to give Clay the satisfaction of an answer. Stepping under the tents, Clay resisted the urge to shake his hair out like a dog. He was certain that was not very prince-like behavior, and probably wouldn’t make the people standing closest happy. George was immediately whisked away, leaving the warmth of his body as just a memory. Suppressing a groan, Clay’s eyes scanned the tents, looking for the lady who seemed to hover over him, even when not physically present. </p>
<p>There. The Queen. His worst nightmare at the moment. </p>
<p>Her gray hair was pulled up tight, an olive-ribboned sailor’s hat perched very carefully on top of the bun. The ribbon matched the exact shade of the coat dress, carefully adorned with pearls. She looked like a piranha in heels, snapping orders at random footmen as they passed by. Clay wondered if he could sneak off without being noticed. </p>
<p>“Prince Clay!” </p>
<p>Clay cringed at his name being called by such a high pitched voice. The Queen was looking right at him, as was a small circle of socialites by her side. There was no running from his responsibilities now, and he’d have to face it alone considering George had abandoned him. It’s fine. </p>
<p>Carefully, he approached, treading the shiny black shoes he had been provided over the marshy ground. This was, possibly, his biggest challenge yet. It was a struggle to keep his breath under control. He stopped with a bow, showing respect to his own grandmother. That was probably the one thing he hated the most. </p>
<p>“Please rise. Let me get a good look at you. We’ve both been so busy, haven’t we?”</p>
<p>Clay nodded, rising simultaneously with the Queen. She stalked around his figure, poking and prodding at his body. Her grayish eyes bore into his as she played with his hair, mint breath spreading over his face. </p>
<p>“This is.. disappointing.” The Queen commented, loud enough for the people around to hear. No one laughed outright, but laughter still showed on their faces. Clay’s face flushed, trying his best to not bite back, in order to not make anything worse. Great. His own grandmother didn’t even like him. And decided to say so in front of half of the court. </p>
<p>“I am sorry, your Majesty. What is disappointing?”</p>
<p>“To think I let my precious son run away to marry the love of his life, and all I get is this in return.” She tugged at his hair. In order to appear strong, he held back a wince and a sarcastic remark. This woman, who had never met him before, had no right to poke fun at him, his mother, or his father. </p>
<p>George’s warning rang through his head.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry you feel that way, your Majesty. May I try and prove you wrong?” </p>
<p>The Queen scoffed, turning around to sit back in her chair. The races were starting, and it was obvious his audience was over. So much for first impressions. <br/>Saving himself the embarrassment of meeting anyone else new, he used his height to find George in the crowd. He stood next to a tall blond, and a much shorter brunet. If George could stand them, Clay had hope. He took long strides, crossing the grass effortlessly and swinging his arms around George’s neck. </p>
<p>“Well, that went fantastic.”</p>
<p>“Get off. People will take pictures.”</p>
<p>“Yes Sir.”</p>
<p>“Prince Clay,” George shoved Clay’s arms away from him. “Meet Lord Simons, and Lord Smith, eldest sons of Lord Simons and Lord Smith, respectively.” </p>
<p>The both bowed, giving Clay adequate time to study them. Lord Smith was youthful and graceful, with brown hair and dark eyes. He was probably half a foot shorter than Clay. The other, Lord Simons, was tall and blond, and much more clumsy. He stood with a slouch (though Clay was certain the boy would be taller than him if he stood straight), blue eyes shining with mischief. </p>
<p>“Uh, George? How can they have the same name as their dad?” Clay whispered, trying to get a grasp on the whole thing.</p>
<p>“I’ll explain later.” George patted the other’s hand, before addressing the group. “Prince Clay didn’t think I had friends.”</p>
<p>“You don’t.” Lord Simons commented, deadpan. Clay had to hold back a snort and Lord Smith punched his taller companion. </p>
<p>“I’m Tommy, by the way. You seem cool.” Lord Simons— Tommy— commented again. They shook hands. Finally, someone normal for once. </p>
<p>“And I’m Toby!” </p>
<p>“It’s nice to meet you both. The Queen decided to diss my entire family in front of half the court, so I’m glad you two aren’t asses.” </p>
<p>“What did she say?” George asked, eyebrows furled in concern.</p>
<p>“Not much. Just that I was a disappointment. No big deal.” </p>
<p>“Don’t worry to much, Prince Clay-“</p>
<p>“You can just call me Clay.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry too much, Clay. She’s mean to everyone at first. I heard she made the King cry on their first meeting.” Toby offered, like the idea of the biggest man he’s ever met crying would make him feel any better. It didn’t.</p>
<p>“Thanks.” Clay gazed over the heads of random dignitaries, squinting as the boats glided over the water. The fog was making it hard to discern one from another; not like he cared anyway. Small tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. His mother’s parents had long since died, and half of his other grandparents hated him. </p>
<p>A warm hand pressed against his, giving it a light, comforting squeeze. Clay bit his lip, this was the first semi-romantic contact they’ve had since the kiss. Well, no, it could just be friendly. Friends hold hands. Right?</p>
<p>Tommy was finishing some crude joke when Clay zoned back in. George’s hand sat nearby, a warm reminder that he always had a hand, and a friend, nearby. With these three and Nick at his side, perhaps he could do this after all. Not just survive, but thrive.  </p>
<p>“Oh! Oxford won! Everyone clap!” George exclaimed, loud enough for the group to hear. They all clapped politely, along with the cheering crowds. Money was discretely passed around the tent. Clay was just glad this miserable event was over.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading! As always, comments and questions are always appreciated. The next few chapters have a bit of a TW for pills and homophobia, but only slightly. <br/>We're almost at the end, can you believe it? I certainly can't.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Apologies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Oof. Just oof.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So, it's been 7 days.</p>
<p>I am so genuinely sorry.</p>
<p>This week has been super busy for me, combined with a severe sense of writer's block. As I type this now, I am also working on a super important essay. I can no longer read nor comprehend words.</p>
<p>
  <em>How could this happen to me? I've made my mistakesss</em>
</p>
<p>New chapters are coming soon, I promise. 7 days is certainly not the longest hiatus a story's ever been on, but I felt insanely guilty about it. </p>
<p>While we're waiting on my to hurry my ass up, how are we all doing?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. 17 - Falling Apart</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Yo! I'm back! As you could probably gather from the title this chapter is going to be angsty-ish. I'm really bad at writing this sort of shit. Also, TW warning for pills.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I think you should probably learn how to dance.” </p>
<p>Clay and George strolled down the halls of Kensington, sun breaking through the paneled windows. Clay would be moving in at the end of April, and wanted to be at least a little acquainted with the layout. Of course, where he would actually be living and the public areas are completely separated, but George found it impertinent. </p>
<p>“Probably. Wouldn’t want to be an even bigger embarrassment, right?”</p>
<p>“Hey, you’re not an embarrassment. She’s just mean.” </p>
<p>“Right. Dance lessons then? When?”</p>
<p>“How about.. now?” George took his hand, sliding through a dark, wooden door. The room beyond seemed to be some sort of sitting room, the olive green walls a stark reminder of his grandmother. Clay suppressed a shiver. There was just enough room near the window to dance, as long as it didn’t get too out of hand. </p>
<p>Waltz music flooded the room, grabbing Clay’s attention as George set his phone down. It had an easily recognizable rhythm, for the beginner’s benefit. </p>
<p>“A video isn’t nearly as good as a live orchestra, but it’s what we got. I’ll lead first, and then you can give it a go?” </p>
<p>Clay nodded, following George’s bow, allowing his hands to be guided to George’s neck and straight out, gripped tightly in each other’s hand. A warm hand settled on his waist. Pleasant sparks worked their way up his spine. It was only slightly weird to be led by someone so much shorter than him, but not unpleasant. If anything, it was right where he belonged. </p>
<p>George pushed him back with a resounding jolt, causing his eyes to tear away from his companions to his feet. Clay felt incredibly awkward and clumsy compared to the swift precision in which George danced, as if he had been born to do this. Well, he probably was. </p>
<p>“Do you dance often?”</p>
<p>“Not anymore. I used to.”</p>
<p>“Any reason you stopped?”</p>
<p>“I’m far too busy to just dance, Clay. And there’s no one to dance with.”</p>
<p>George hummed along to the song, gently correcting Clay whenever he got out of line. They were gloriously close, swaying in time to the music. Sunlight illuminated George’s face just right. Clay bit his lip, reasoning out whether or not he should ask the brewing question that’s been weighing his heart down like a rock for the past week. </p>
<p>“So, do you remember the other night, when you asked me to get your razor?”</p>
<p>George hummed, closing his eyes slightly to block out the sun. </p>
<p>“Why do you have Depakote?”</p>
<p>It was like the music had stopped. The only thing that Clay could comprehend was the shock, anger, and hints of disappointment on George’s face. He briefly recounted George letting him go, hands dropping to the side. </p>
<p>“It doesn’t fucking matter.” </p>
<p>“It does, George. I’m not an idiot. I’m sorry if I crossed any boundaries-”</p>
<p>“Crossed any boundaries? You went through my stuff, and then had the audacity to bring it up! You crossed the whole damn river at this point!”</p>
<p>“I said I was sorry!”</p>
<p>“I don’t care about your apologies. You have a habit of sticking your nose in everyone’s business, don’t you? No wonder the Queen doesn’t like you.” George’s face was flushed with anger, a cold, nasty glare worming its way across his boyish features. Clay involuntarily took a step back, his harsh words like a slap. </p>
<p>“I- George-”</p>
<p>“I mean it, Clay. Keep your damn nose in your own business. Maybe you are a disappointment, that’s why your mum shipped you off. Find your own way back.”</p>
<p>Clay couldn’t even get a word in before George was scooping his phone up and sliding through the door, like the world’s quietest storm. He bit his lip, mind processing the words at a rate slower than a turtle. He wasn’t that oblivious, right? Did friends not talk about that stuff? Every fight he’d ever gotten into with Nick had never hurt this bad. Less than ten words to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, and even a relationship. </p>
<p>Clay sighed, rubbing his eyes and tugging at his hair, hot tears beginning to form. George had single handedly touched on just about everything he had been self-conscious about for the last two months. It destroyed his heart, leaving it shattered in a million little pieces. He hated himself, for looking through George’s stuff, and that even after all of this, he still yearned to be back in George’s arms. </p>
<p>“Goddammit!” He screamed, blindly tugging his phone out of his pocket. If there was one person in this world who could help, he was only a call away. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Clay sat idly on the sitting room couch, tears now dried into a itchy, stiff mess across his cheeks. The sun was setting, but he shut out everyone who had come in to check on him. As far as he was concerned, there was only him and Nick in this entire world. </p>
<p>“My tickets are booked. I’ll be there in a few days.” Nick’s voice was soft, in an effort to not set Clay off again. </p>
<p>“I know it’s expensive to fly so soon.. I promise I’ll get them covered.”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it, Clay. I’m not going to let you suffer without your best friend.”</p>
<p>Clay sniffed, smiling a dry smile at the man on speaker, who sat nearly five thousand miles away. </p>
<p>“I think you’re the only person who doesn’t hate me.”</p>
<p>“C’mon, that’s not true. You’re not thinking straight, Clay. You’re upset.”</p>
<p>“No shit, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“How are you getting home?”</p>
<p>“I’ll walk, probably. I think.”</p>
<p>“It’s getting dark, and you have absolutely no idea where you are. Call a cab, Clay. Don’t be an idiot.”</p>
<p>“I may or may not know what my hotel is called, either.”</p>
<p>There was a long, drawn out sigh on the other end of the screen. He knew it was midday for Nick, his only friend. And he probably didn’t want to listen to Clay whine about his stupid princely life at a dirty, crowded public school. </p>
<p>“Just text him, ask for the name of the hotel. What’s the worst thing, he ignores you?”</p>
<p>“I’d rather sleep on the streets than text him.”</p>
<p>“That’s a bit dramatic. You could just move into the Kensington apartments for tonight?”</p>
<p>“I guess.” Clay sighed, moving his hair out of his face. “I think that might actually work.” </p>
<p>Somewhere on the other end of the line a bell rang, signaling Nick no longer had time to talk. A deep sadness flooded Clay’s heart. As strange as it was, he’d rather be in school right now, laughing and talking with everyone, rather than being curled up in a cold, empty room with his heart broken. </p>
<p>“I gotta go, I’ll text you later. Try not to think about it?”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>The boys said their goodbyes, leaving Clay to stare at his darkened phone screen. He was exhausted, ready to fall asleep at any minute, from the overstimulation of the day. He didn’t know if there was any protocol against falling asleep on the couch of a sitting room. There would probably be tours coming in and out in the morning, and no one would take kindly to the future King snoring away. </p>
<p>The next time a staff member came in, he politely (and tearfully) made a room request. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Three days.</p>
<p>Three whole days, and not a single word was passed between George and Clay. Not a friendly hello, nor a text. Some other random guy was put in charge of herding Clay, because “George was busy”. Mr. Gold was a tall, aloof guy, but he wasn’t George. Wasn’t who Clay wanted the most.</p>
<p>“Clay!” Nick yelled, breaking into a sprint from across the airport. Clay smiled his first genuine smile in a few days, relieved to see his friend in the flesh. Maybe everything could be okay, if he tried hard enough. The boys fell into a hug, Mr. Gold standing idly off to the side. </p>
<p>“How do you feel?” Nick whispered, holding the taller tight. Clay bit his lip, sighing.</p>
<p>“You just got here, can we not talk about that?”</p>
<p>“Of course.” Nick released the hug, grabbing the suitcase that had been abandoned on impact. He held a massive grin on his face, a small stubble of a beard creeping across his chin and cheeks. God, Clay had missed that stupid smile. He had missed his friend. </p>
<p>“Remind me to never do anything impulsive without telling you.”</p>
<p>“I won’t let you get away with anything impulsive anyway.”</p>
<p>Mr. Gold cleared his throat and gestured to the entrance of the airport, signaling to the boys it was time to go. His new handler was impatient. </p>
<p>“God, Nick. I have so much to tell you. And, seeing as you're my special guest to the ball, a lot to learn.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks so much for sticking around! Let me know what you think about this one. Questions and comments are appreciated, and I do see them (even if I'm too lazy/anxious to respond). Oh, and Sapnap is here in the flesh!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 18- Goodbye</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Well, I only took a several week holiday to come back with an unhappy ending. Very typical of me.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Clay and Nick sat around his coffee table, bottles of beer scattered between them, mostly unopened. With their newfound freedom to drink, and Clay’s very prevalent emotional issues, getting drunk was the perfect way to get reacquainted. Both took a bottle, Nick counting down. </p>
<p>“Three… two… one… chug!”</p>
<p>The boys began to chug their beer, Clay pulling a sour face and Nick drinking in earnest. One had more experience in drinking games than the other, which was apparent. </p>
<p>“Want to explain your issues with good old Duke Davidson?”</p>
<p>“I’m going to need to be a little more drunk before we work on that whole issue.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on.” Nick leaned back on his arms, feet crossed, looking expectantly back at the other. “I can tell you’re literally dying to spill.”</p>
<p>Clay twisted his words around, checking each piece of his memory to find a good place to start. There was always the beginning, but Clay was certain that Nick wouldn’t be interested in all of the sappy, anxiety-ridden interactions. </p>
<p>“We kissed.” </p>
<p>Nick raised his eyebrows, nodding, but not interrupting. Alcohol did wonders on curving his out-of-control attitude. </p>
<p>“It was really nice, Nick, but then he said we weren’t allowed to talk about it. The stupid ass royal family and their blatant homophobia and all that. I want to be mad at him for it, but I know it’s not his fault.”</p>
<p>“Did you ever try again? Maybe he wants to kiss you, too.”</p>
<p>“My grandmother already hates me, she might cut my head off if I try that.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think guillotine executions are legal. She could feed you to the sharks, though. Throw you off some random cliff in the middle of nowhere.” Nick took another sip as Clay rolled his eyes, nose scrunching in disgust.</p>
<p>“Very helpful.”</p>
<p>“Sorry. Continue.” </p>
<p>“And then we had our fight, and I thought, maybe, the distance could help my damn crush. If anything, it’s made it worse. I don’t go more than an hour without thinking about him. I miss George.”</p>
<p>“Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”</p>
<p>“Nick,” Clay groaned, running his hands through his hair. “Stop. You suck.” </p>
<p>“Just talk to him, Clay. How are you supposed to know what he’s thinking if you don’t talk?”</p>
<p>“I can’t, he hates me.”</p>
<p>“Did he tell you that?”</p>
<p>“Not directly, but I can infer.”</p>
<p>“You inferred from heated words in a really tense moment. I know for a fact that you’ve said shit you don’t mean. Remember that time when I won our Minecraft race and you got so pissed off you called me a-”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay, I get it. Thank you, asshole. We pinky swore not to talk about that.”</p>
<p>“In fifth grade! You can’t expect me to uphold that!”</p>
<p>“I can and I will.” Clay sighed, leaned back against the couch, and took another sip of his beer. </p>
<p>“Either way, I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk to me right now. I intruded on his personal life, and I feel bad for that.”</p>
<p>“Then tell him that.” Nick paused, obviously thinking. “Give me your phone.”</p>
<p>“What? No. Fuck off.”</p>
<p>“Clay, give me your phone. It’s for your own good. Don’t you trust me?”</p>
<p>“Not when you look at me like that!”</p>
<p>“Clay.” Nick taunted, moving to kneel. “You either give me your phone, or I take it the hard way.”</p>
<p>“Good luck asshole, you’re a tenth of my size.”</p>
<p>Nick stood with a decided attitude, determined and ready to fight for whatever he wanted. Clay suppressed an internal groan. He loved his best friendly dearly, but he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. </p>
<p>“Fine.” He tossed the phone lightly into Nick’s awaiting hand. “Just don’t do anything stupid that I’ll regret.”</p>
<p>“Of course not!” His friend chirped with a smile, sitting cross-legged on the floor, one hand occupied with a drink and the other tapping away at the phone. “I’m just going to tell your boyfriend to come over.”</p>
<p>“Whatever.”</p>
<p>“Don’t sass me, Clay, or I’ll actually do it.” Clay leaned his head back against the couch, not really trusting his sense of judgement. Nick scrolled quietly through the other’s phone, occasionally stopping to type. Clay took another sip, cringing at the harsh taste. He wasn’t really a beer guy. Nick finished his task, locking the phone and sliding it across the floor out of either of their reach. </p>
<p>“So, we have to go to this ball, right? He can’t just not go to that. Confess there.”</p>
<p>“With everything going on at the same time? No. You’ll be lucky if I don't have a heart attack and die right on the ballroom floor.”</p>
<p>“Listen, I just think it could be romantic. Will you at least put a thought into it? For me?” Nick pouted, that fake puppy dog pout that could compel even the most stubborn. Clay sighed, plunking his head down hard against the coffee table, swearing and mumbling. His best friend could be impossible sometimes.</p>
<p>“I’ll put thought into it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nick’s visit flew by fast. There were hundreds of things the Clay excitedly showed him, from a walk down the River Thames to his soon-to-be apartments. The boys steered clear of any press or family, trying to find some semblance of normality in the otherwise abnormal visit. The ball was a looming threat, thick with tension and anxiety. </p>
<p>And that anxiety was coming to fruition, as Clay’s scheduled appearance was only a few minutes away. </p>
<p>“Are you sure I look good in this?” Clay turned to the side in the full length mirror, tugging at the lapels on his suit. The maroon sash felt too heavy, the suit itself too stiff, and the tie itchy. Medals he had never earned glistened against the black fabric. The crown he was meant to wear was tossed haphazardly on a side table, having been declared too heavy to wear around by Clay. </p>
<p>“Dude, you look fine.” Nick replied, not even bothering to look up from tapping on his phone. He’d calmed his friend’s fears a hundred and one times now, and didn’t even need to look to know what he was doing. Clay frowned, readjusting the sash as it slipped to the side again. </p>
<p>“But what if-”</p>
<p>“If you finish that sentence, I swear to God I will go down to the ball and leave you.” Clay shut his mouth with a huff, annoyed at his friend’s treatment. Giving in, he sat back on the couch, straight-backed and terrified of creasing his suit. The entire country, scratch that, the entire world would be watching him tonight. There was no way to prepare for something like that, at least in Clay’s mind. There was no amount of coaching or training to put yourself on display in front of millions of people. </p>
<p>A knock at the door startled the two boys. Clay stood up eagerly, pushing the crown on his head with shaking hands. He stared at himself in the mirror, fixing his hair, until Nick forcibly dragged him away. A guard was at the door, tasked with bringing the pair to the ballroom. Clay shook in the gilded hallway, with half a mind to go back into the bedroom and disappear. Nick gave a quick squeeze of the other’s hand, pushing him forward. </p>
<p>“You’ve got this. I’ll be right behind you if you need me.”</p>
<p>The trio made their way down what felt like a billion staircases, before stopping in front of a large oak door, carved with flowers and lions and greenery. The chatter of hundreds of people and the sound of a full orchestra hit their ears, without the door having to be open. The guard slipped through, preparing the herald to announce Clay’s arrival. Nick slinked off to find an easier, more private entrance that wouldn’t have a herald. </p>
<p>“His Royal Highness, Prince of England!” The herald called. The doors opened wide, exposing Clay to the blinding, dazzling light of a hundred mini chandeliers. The whole room paused, then erupted into cheers. Being named publicly as the Prince of England was a big deal, his official welcoming into the royal life. </p>
<p>Clay plastered on a blinding smile, taking slow, careful steps just as he had practiced. He waved politely at the people who clamored for his attention as he reached the bottom. It was almost overwhelming, the sea of people who pushed and shoved their way towards him. In the midst of a thousand different conversations, he felt like a small, lost buoy. </p>
<p>He knew who he was really looking for. </p>
<p>His eyes scanned the upper railings for a certain face, while half-replying politely to the people who spoke loudly at him. There-- a glint of the familiar brown hair. George stood against the railing, talking to some guest, laughing at whatever was happening in the conversation. Clay pushed past the crowd, quickening his pace to a near jog across the crowded ballroom, to the smaller set of stairs in the back of the room. There was no way he was going to let George go, especially not when they were this close.</p>
<p>Clay approached George, grabbing the other’s arm roughly and yanking him around. George’s honeyed eyes looked up at him, first with confusion and then hardening. Clay barely gave the other enough time to apologize to the guest before yanking him through the nearest door and slamming it shut.</p>
<p>“What the hell, your Highness! Let me out!”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“No? No? What do you mean, no? Let me the fuck out-” George made a push to the door, but Clay shoved him back with enough force that the other nearly toppled over the nearby couch. </p>
<p>“Clay-!”</p>
<p>“We’ve avoided each other for too long! You’re driving me crazy!”</p>
<p>“So you kidnap me?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Clay paused, taking a deep breath. He’d mostly been acting on instinct up to this point, not even really sure what he was doing, nor his intent. “I guess so, yeah.”</p>
<p>George shook his head and rubbed his eyes, sitting on the back of the pea-green couch. They’d ended up in some sort or parlor, filled with very ugly furniture. The tension was so thick it could have only been cut by a chainsaw. </p>
<p>“What do you want, Clay?” George finally spoke, hesitantly meeting the other’s eyes. The brown orbs had softened significantly, which Clay had taken as an encouraging sign. </p>
<p>“You’ve been driving me crazy, George. All day and all night, it’s you. It’s been you since the moment we met. Nick suggested I talk to you here and I guess… I guess I just kidnapped a Duke.” Clay wheezed, doubling over as he realized the ridiculousness of the situation at hand. He had basically committed a felony for his crazy obsession. </p>
<p>“Clay,” George sighed. “You know we can’t do this. It’ll be the ruin of both of our families. Yours may have backups, but I’m the only one that can continue my family. If I ruin this… centuries of work will come with me. Don’t you understand?”</p>
<p>“George, I’ll be King in, what, a couple years!” Clay exclaimed breathlessly. “I’ll have the power to make sure nothing bad ever happens to you! Please!”</p>
<p>“First of all, that’s not even how this country's government works. Second, it’s too risky.” </p>
<p>“So you’re admitting that you like me?”</p>
<p>“That’s not the point, and you know it.”</p>
<p>The pair stared off, neither daring to go any further but knowing that there was no going back. A stalemate, of sorts, no next move could be made without one sacrificing something. </p>
<p>“Could you just,” Clay breathed, calming his racing heart. “Could you just give it a chance? I like you-- no, I love you. We could make this work.” </p>
<p>George stood with a resounding, echoing sigh. Pain and sadness punctuated his eyes and soft features. Clay’s heart nearly broke at the sight. He had this fairytale all played out-- he’d be able to convince George and they’d live happily ever after. Every step towards him shattered that illusion. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Clay. Let’s never speak again.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all so, so much for joining me on this journey! I hoped you enjoyed every moment as much as I did!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello everyone! Thank you for finishing the very first chapter of American Royalty, or it's alternative title, American Dreams (ha). I hope you liked it! Questions and feedback are always encouraged.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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